


Vanguard of Ares

by orangeink



Category: K (Anime), Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-The Last Olympian (Percy Jackson), Yata is a demigod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27310021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeink/pseuds/orangeink
Summary: Yata gets the call soon after the Mole incident with Fushimi."Olympus is under attack. We need you here – can you come? Ares needs his Vanguard."The Red Clan is said to have bonds thicker than blood, but these particular bonds are strengthened with golden ichor, so he says dutifully, "Of course I'll come, Clarisse."
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Clarisse La Rue/Chris Rodriguez, Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki, Munakata Reishi/Suoh Mikoto, Yata Misaki & Clarisse La Rue
Comments: 14
Kudos: 100





	1. Life and Times of the Vanguard

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This was one of my favorite stories to write. It's complete, and I'm currently cross-posting it from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> For now, enjoy the first installment and expect weekly updates!
> 
> Happy Halloween!
> 
> Blanket warning for language and descriptions of violence.

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. They say blood runs thicker than water. They say a lot of things, like _it’s your duty to stay and defend the Camp_ and _you can’t run from your destiny_. 

And the most recycled: _You won’t survive in the real world for long – the monsters will find you: they always do._

Had Yata Misaki been anyone else, he might have let everything _they_ said rule his life and make his decisions for him: if he were weaker, less stubborn, he would have done as they said and stayed within the safety of the Camp boundaries, never venturing out except for school or – if he was _really_ lucky – a quick trip to see his father’s throne on one of the Solstices.

But because his blood was already so strong and drew monsters to him like a beacon – despite the fact he wasn’t a child of the Big Three – he was forbidden from leaving the Camp with very few exceptions. School wasn’t a good enough reason to be given permission to venture out into the real world, and he had never been granted a Quest, so he remained trapped in the one place on Earth that was supposed to be his refuge, but quickly became more and more like a _prison_ with fancy trappings.

 _Be grateful_ , they said, _you’re lucky you were able to survive long enough to reach this haven – a lot of others aren’t so fortunate._

For a while, he let them convince him to stay. It wasn’t _that_ bad after all – in fact it was kind of awesome, because he had finally found a place where he _belonged_. His father claimed him seconds after he stumbled – exhausted and bleeding but still _fighting_ – across the Camp boundaries for the first time, passing under the tall pine tree that was actually his cousin several times removed.

Apparently that was rare, to be snatched up so fast by his godly parent – but Yata hadn’t cared about the blood red boar and spear that floated over his head because all he had wanted at the time was to _fall asleep and never wake up_.

He just wanted to forget everything for a while and act like the terrified twelve-year-old he was: he wanted to _forget_ about the monsters that had clawed at him and _taken his mother_ , wanted to forget that he’d probably never hear his native tongue again for a long time, wanted to forget about how the other campers – his relatives somehow, apparently – whispered in awe about how he had managed to survive and find his way to the Camp without a satyr to guide him.

And for a while he _was_ able to forget about the horrors he had seen. For a while he was able to focus on learning to fight with his new brothers and sisters; for a while he was able to enjoy the new friendships he built; the games of Capture the Flag and s’mores by the magic campfire that changed colors constantly and was an endless fascination to him because he’d always been a little bit of a pyromaniac (and that was partially the reason why he’d been able to take out that hag in Chicago).

He even started to make a name for himself: his eagerness and skill and tendency to always lead the charge in a mock-battle earned him the name, “Vanguard of Ares,” a responsibility he took _very_ seriously.

But eventually his year or two of bliss began to turn sour, and he started to feel restless.

It was just little things at first: the fact that his siblings couldn’t properly say his name began to grate on him, and the fact that nobody was able to properly challenge him in the arena with a staff or spear anymore began to make him feel edgy.

He started staring out across Long Island Sound more and more often, feeling the tension wind tighter and tighter in his chest. His already quick temper became more explosive, and it eventually got to the point where Chiron had to intervene so he didn’t start a blood feud with the Aphrodite Cabin, who had been tittering away again that his love life was going to be absolutely _horrendous_.

(He didn’t know why that had been the last straw, but somehow it had been the last grain of rice to tip the scale and he had _snapped_.)

As was to be expected, Chiron dragged him to the Big House for an audience with the Camp Director, Mr. D.

Fidgeting in front of them, Yata dutifully did his best to explain his frustrations, and as he was talking he suddenly had a flash of inspiration about how to possibly resolve them.

“Can I leave the Camp for a while?” he asked, “Just for a day. Let me go on grocery runs with Argus or something.”

The two governing bodies of Camp Half-Blood shared a quick glance that he couldn’t quite decipher, before Dionysus shut him down with a blunt, “No.”

Something in him snarled at that, and his blood started to boil.

“Why not?” he demanded angrily. “I haven’t set foot outside the Camp in almost two years, except for that one trip to Olympus at the last Winter Solstice!”

Chiron attempted to pacify him by saying gently, “Your blood is too strong. It’s just not safe, Misaki.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” he snapped back, because the only person in the world he allowed to call him by his embarrassingly-feminine first name was his mother, and she was _gone_.

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Dionysus had sneered at him. “The answer is final. You’re forbidden from leaving the Camp.”

“It’s for your own good, Yata,” Chiron tried to reassure him, but the son of Ares had already been out the door before he could do something he would truly regret later.

The next few weeks he had been nigh-unapproachable: snapping at everyone and spoiling for a fight. The only one brave enough to oblige him had been his younger half-sister Clarisse, who had just arrived at the Camp and had quickly taken to considering him a mentor and role model, despite the fact he was only three years older than her.

Sparring with her had helped him to blow off some steam, and eventually the sparring had turned into impromptu training, and by the end of it he had felt calm enough he thought he could restrain himself from biting someone’s head off.

“Why don’t you try talking to Dad?” Clarisse suggested, still bright-eyed and tough: despite her age and what she had been through. She was another unusual one: their father had purportedly watched over her on her journey to Camp, something that had had everyone aflutter for a while. “You’re his Vanguard, right? I’m sure he’ll listen.”

Yata had been doubtful, but eventually figured he had nothing to lose by trying. And so, every night from then on he had sacrificed some of his food to the fire at dinner, asking his father for some kind of advice, for any guidance at all.

For two months, his prayers went unanswered, and things only got worse.

The peculiar _restlessness_ continued to buzz under his skin like a hive of angry bees, and his temper became shorter and shorter even as his silent, wistful vigils over Long Island Sound became longer and longer.

Eventually he decided _to Hades with it all_. He packed up his few meager possessions, took the measly allowance he had been able to earn over the past two years helping in the strawberry fields, grabbed his standard-issue Celestial bronze knife (not his first choice for a weapon, but it would have to do), and marched up the hill toward Thalia’s Tree.

People had caught wind of what he was doing by then, of course, and so he found himself being trailed to the Camp border by a crowd of mildly-curious campers.

Chiron and Mr. D. were waiting for him at the top of the hill, _of course_ , and he stopped a good five feet away from them, absently adjusting the straps of his pack to fit more snugly over his shoulders.

“What do you think you’re doing, Yata?” Chiron was the first to break the silence.

“I’m leaving,” Yata replied bluntly, fixing the two immortals before him with a look free of the fear he probably should have been feeling from daring to challenge them both head-on.

“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that,” Chiron began, shuffling his hooves slightly.

“Why not?” Yata fired back, feeling _exhausted_ and exhilarated at the same time, like he was standing on the cusp of something _amazing_. “It’s my choice.”

They said a lot of things to try and get him to stay, tried to _order_ him to give up and give in, in the end.

But he was more of his father’s son than he had perhaps been given credit for, because he brushed them all off with reckless abandon, ignoring the fact he was _this close_ to pissing off an immortal god who could turn him into a can of Diet Coke if the urge struck him.

He almost thought Chiron was going to attempt to restrain him by force at one point, and he had tensed in anticipation of the fight – when suddenly there was a rumbling of thunder in the distance and a muscular man in biker’s leather with fire for eyes was standing in their midst.

(Yata didn’t have to feel the almost _overpowering_ waves of _ragebloodlustneedtofight_ rolling off the newcomer to realize instinctively that this was his father – Ares, the god of war – who had for some reason decided to grace the gathering of demigods and two immortals with his presence.)

“Brother,” Dionysus suddenly looked terribly bored with the whole affair, “To what do we owe this dubious honor?”

Pointedly ignoring the question, Ares barely spared his half-sibling a glance before turning the full force of his literally burning gaze on the lanky teen standing tall (even at just over five feet of height) in front of him. Yata glared right back, his hazel eyes blazing with defiance.

After a moment of dead silence (during which Yata felt distinctly like he was being _judged_ , analyzed for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on), the god of war finally deigned to speak.

“Let the boy go,” he rumbled: his voice gruff and strong, the tone of command adding steel to his words.

“But, Lord Ares –” Chiron tried to protest, only to have the god of war cut him off.

“You heard me, centaur,” Ares fixed his impossibly heavy stare on his son once again, considering the small body that was obviously tensed and ready to fight. The god of war smiled suddenly, all sharp white teeth, “I like your guts, kid. You truly are my son.”

The words shocked the gathered campers, but Yata stood his ground and waited, certain there was something else his father had come here to say.

He discovered his hunch was right when the god of war reached into one of the pockets of his leather jacket and tossed something small and shiny at him.

Yata snatched it out of the air on instinct, and looked down briefly to examine the gift.

It was nothing special: just a small silver pendant in the shape of a flame. Yata’s thumb accidentally pricked on the sharp point of the flame, and he hissed in surprise when his blood welled out of the puncture wound. Then he gasped along with the gathered onlookers when the moment his blood touched the pendant it lengthened into a spear tipped in glowing Celestial bronze.

Speechless, he glanced up at his father, whose face was carefully neutral.

“You’ve got a tough road ahead of you, kid,” was all the god of war said, “This is the least I could do. Make me proud, Vanguard.”

Then Ares vanished in a flash of fire, leaving Yata with a spear and the sudden awed attention of all of Camp Half-Blood.

Setting his mouth in a firm line, Yata carefully deactivated the spear and slipped the pendant into his pocket. Resetting his pack on his shoulders, he looked up expectantly at the two immortals that still stood between him and freedom.

“Foolish brat,” Dionysus sneered at him, but nonetheless got out of the way. With a sigh, Chiron reluctantly moved aside as well, and suddenly Yata had a clear path ahead of him.

Pointedly ignoring the mumblings of his relatives behind him, Yata started forward with his head held high. The _restlessness_ that had been plaguing him for months was almost singing in his blood now, making his heart pound with the certainty that _this was the moment he’d been waiting for_.

“Yata?” the young, lost-sounding voice was enough to give him pause, and he glanced back to see Clarisse looking at him uncertainly, her expression filled with uncharacteristic hesitation.

He deviated from his path and went to stand in front of her – settling a hand on her shoulder because she was already almost as tall as him (somehow he was the runt of Ares’ litter, a fact that people had been quick to learn did not make him any easier to take down in a fight), and looked her in the eyes, “I’ll be back, Clarisse. Right now I just need to leave for a while. If you need me, I promise I’ll return.”

“Okay,” she whispered, and he could tell she was stubbornly holding tears back, so he clapped her on the shoulder and gave her a small smile, “Keep working on your sword techniques. Maybe next time we meet you’ll be able to beat me in a fight.”

He could tell from the glint in her eyes that it was a promise, and then he turned away and walked under the shade of Thalia’s Tree.

“Good luck, Yata,” Chiron sounded so _old_ for a moment, but his voice was sincere, “We are always here for you if you need us.”

Yata nodded at him but didn’t stop his steady trek to the edge of the Camp border. Without hesitating, he crossed that invisible barrier and for the first time in two years breathed in the air of the mortal world.

He didn’t look back as he headed down the hill, and started down the dirt road to New York City on foot.

Yata Misaki, the Vanguard of Ares, was fourteen years old when he left behind the only safe haven for his kind in the entire world, and went off to face the unknown with only a magical spear, his father’s blessing, eighty-five dollars cash, and the clothes on his back.

They said he wouldn’t last a week.

They were wrong.

**_< \--one year later-->_ **

It took Yata Misaki fifteen months to make his way to Japan. He lived on the streets and worked odd jobs to survive, finally managing to save up enough money for a one-way ticket to his homeland.

It was not an easy life: monsters attacked at least once a week, drawn by the siren call of his blood. But he hadn’t wasted his years in Camp Half-Blood, and although there were a few close calls, he managed to stay relatively intact.

He did not keep in close contact with the Camp. The only IMs he answered were from Clarisse, and those were exceedingly rare. He did his best to ignore the gods’ existence, and they did him the courtesy of not going out to their way to cause trouble for him.

When he finally stepped off of the airplane in Tokyo International Airport and was hit with an audial wave of his native language, Yata felt some of the _restlessness_ that still plagued him dissipate a little, and a smile stretched across his face.

Something settled in his chest, and Yata reveled in the first flicker of _peace_ that he had felt in a long, long time.

This far East, the monsters that plagued his brethren were unlikely to follow him, drawn as they were to the power of Olympus that at the moment was situated firmly in the West, so he wasn’t too worried about that kind of trouble finding him. (He wasn’t an idiot, though, despite what some of his naysayers back at Camp thought, and he had read up on Japanese creatures just to be prepared. Better safe than sorry, as he had quickly learned.)

Allowing the cadence of his native tongue to wash over him, Yata smiled as he lifted his head, slung his ratty pack over his shoulder, and headed out into the metropolis that almost put the Big Apple to shame.

(The gods were far from here, he thought. It didn’t matter what _they_ said, anymore.)

**_< \--two and a half years later-->_ **

To this day, Yata wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in Shizume City. Somehow, in between wandering the country and following the next odd job, he had found himself standing on the outskirts of a magnificent, sprawling metropolis that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. (He realized almost right away that this place was, for whatever reason, _teeming_ with Mist, and that the Rainbow goddess obviously had a hand in keeping it hidden from most mortal eyes.)

Curious despite himself, Yata wandered over the boundary and unknowingly stepped into a different world entirely, one that consisted not of gods, but of Kings and Clans.

He quickly became absorbed in the intricacies of the city, and for the first time in almost three years, decided to put down roots for a while.

It was completely by chance that he met Fushimi Saruhiko one day while searching for work, and he should have known from the first glimpse of those dark blue, knowing eyes that it would be best to escape while he could.

But it had been too long since Yata had had a true friend, and Saruhiko quickly became the best he ever had.

Of course, the Fates obviously weren’t finished having fun at Yata’s expense, because one day Saru pulled him aside and asked, “Misaki, why are you glowing?”

(Turns out Fushimi was a clear-sighted mortal, the first Yata had ever met. He should have figured out some way to lie, he supposed, but looking at his best friend in the whole world, Yata found he could do nothing else except tell the truth. And that was how Fushimi Saruhiko found out that Yata wasn’t completely human after all.

But Saru didn’t mind. In fact, he found it fascinating, and maybe that was when Yata’s fate was sealed, because how could he leave behind the first person who had no _ichor_ -strengthened ties to him, but had nevertheless accepted him for who he was?)

Unbeknownst to Yata, the wheels of Fate continued to turn in the West, and Kronos began to rise.

**_< \--three and a half years later-->_ **

For a while after that, things were good in Yata’s world, and they only improved when he and Saru met Suoh Mikoto, the Red King, and decided to follow him.

They accepted his mark and Flame, and were immediately welcomed into the fold of the Red Clan. Yata even managed to earn the honored position of being the Red King’s Vanguard, Yatagarasu, and it warmed his heart that he seemed to have finally found his place in the world.

It had taken Yata almost three years, but despite what _they_ had said, he had managed to survive on his own in the big, bad world, and with HOMRA he felt even more at home than he ever had at Camp Half-Blood.

(Yata should have remembered, of course, that he was a demigod, and that demigods’ luck _sucked_ , and would inevitably run out.)

He was almost able to completely forget the life he had left behind, but then Chiron sent him an Iris Message and told him Clarisse had embarked on a Quest to the Sea of Monsters, and was now missing.

An ugly sort of panic had shot through him when he heard the news, his Aura had flared uncontrollably, and he told Chiron he’d be there as soon as possible.

He had spent the next several hours visiting his various stashes throughout the city, quietly gathering what he would need to return to the world of gods and monsters he had been more than happy to leave behind.

Yata was still trying to figure out how to tell his Clan where he was going without raising suspicions when Chiron contacted him again and said that Clarisse had been found, and that she would be all right.

Nearly boneless with relief, he demanded to speak with her, to confirm with his own eyes and ears that his closest sibling was alive and well.

To his intense relief, she looked a little thin and rattled but no worse for wear. He congratulated her on her Quest, and she immediately began to tell him about what had been happening in the West recently.

Apparently, he had missed a lot in the last three years. Clarisse told him everything: a child of the Big Three had shown up (a “skinny dork” she’d called him), Luke Castellan had betrayed the gods to the Titans, Kronos was rising, the Golden Fleece had been returned to the Camp thanks to her Quest, and now there were _two_ children of the Big Three running around – Thalia had been revived from her Tree by accident. 

It was a lot for him to process, and he felt distinctly numb when he finally bid her farewell and waved away the lingering Mist of the Iris Message. He wandered the city for a while, trying to gather his thoughts, and it wasn’t until well after dark that he finally returned to the bar, where the rest of the Red Clan had been almost up-in-arms because he had been away for so long _without so much as a single word_.

He laughed awkwardly as Totsuka scolded him, and in the end he managed to escape to his room without drawing too much attention (though he could feel Saru’s forever-too-perceptive eyes on him as he fled the bar area).

Perhaps it was because he was so preoccupied with the sudden influx of news from the West, of the thought that _war with the Titans could be on the horizon_ , that he missed the signs of his best friend’s slow withdrawal from the Red Clan.

Yata finally noticed something was wrong several months later, but by then it was far too late.

**_< \--four years later-->_ **

Yata Misaki had just turned eighteen when his whole world shattered for the second time in his life.

The first time had been when his mother was stolen from him by teeth and claws and _eyes that flashed in the dark and were desperate to eat him too_.

The second time was when he watched Fushimi Saruhiko drag his flame-tipped fingers over the pale skin of his chest, raking across the mark of HOMRA and rendering it almost unrecognizable.

The second time was when Saru turned his back on Misaki and everything he had come to believe in: the second time was much worse than the first because the second time broke Misaki’s heart.

They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, and on this account Yata Misaki found he was forced to agree.

**_< \--five years later-->_ **

The Vanguard of the Red Clan had just limped home from an extremely emotionally-exhausting night of being trapped underground with his old-best-friend-turned-traitor – getting shot at and nearly blown up several times in the process – and was on his way to the comfort of his bed when Mist swirled up in front of him and he found himself facing Clarisse LaRue for the first time in almost two years.

“Clarisse,” he greeted, doing his best to paste a smile across his face. “You’ve grown since the last time I saw you.”

And she had – her face had less baby fat, her shoulders were broader, and from the looks of things she had no doubt passed him in height by now. He was so blinded by exhaustion that it took him a moment to notice the serious expression on her face and the fact she was wearing armor. As soon as it dawned on him, Yata forced himself to pay closer attention.

“Yata,” she replied, and her brown eyes softened for a moment, before hardening again.

She got straight to the point, “Olympus is under attack. We need you here – can you come? Ares needs his Vanguard.”

For a moment Yata just stared at her, the events of the last twenty-four hours laying heavily on his mind, the echo of, _“What was HOMRA to you?!”_ And the sneered reply, _“It’s just a bunch of thugs throwing around their powers,”_ that _couldn’t possibly be true._

Then he closed his eyes and gathered himself.

They say blood is thicker than water. They say the Red Clan’s bonds are thicker than blood. But _these_ bonds that he had left behind years ago were strengthened with golden _ichor_ , so he dutifully said, “Of course I’ll come, Clarisse. I’ll be in New York as soon as possible.”

His was slightly gratified to see some of the worry in her eyes melt away, and after her uncharacteristically soft, “Thank you, Yata,” she swiped through the Mist and left him alone in his room that he had rented a couple blocks away from HOMRA headquarters.

For a few minutes, all he could bring himself to do was stare at his hands. Then, lethargically, he reached into his pocket and took out the flame-shaped pendant (oddly appropriate, he now realized) that he hadn’t had to use for years. He studied the small silver trinket for a moment, and used the time to mentally prepare himself for what he was about to do.

Once he was almost certain he could stand without being in too much danger of swaying and keeling over, Yata pushed himself to his feet and began to prepare.

He packed a small backpack with clothes, the small bits of ambrosia he had managed to get ahold of over the years, grabbed some old American cash he still had left over, as well as enough yen to buy a one-way ticket to Washington D.C. (he wasn’t stupid: if his father and the other gods were currently fighting what he thought that storm system moving across the States _actually_ was, there was no way he’d be able to catch a direct flight to New York City in the next couple of days).

Before he left his small apartment, he quickly typed a short note on his digital watch and sent it to all of the Red Clan members’ tablets. He kept it vague on purpose: just letting them know he had business out of town for a while, and wasn’t sure when he’d return (or _if_ he’d return, Yata thought grimly). Yata knew it was out of character of him, but he hoped that he’d be back before any of them got too suspicious.

His last order of business complete, the Vanguard of Ares and the Red Clan left to hail a cab and re-enter the world of gods and monsters he had left behind half a decade ago.

They say that no matter how far you run or how hard you try to hide, your past will inevitably catch up with you. On this matter, also, Yata was unfortunately inclined to agree.


	2. Rumors of the Vanguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next installment. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. Happy end of the 2020 U.S. Presidential election! Yay for democracy!

The first time Percy Jackson heard about the Vanguard of Ares was from Luke Castellan’s lips, soon after the son of Hermes declared he was betraying the gods to the Titans. Percy hadn’t really been paying much attention to Luke’s monologue, occupied as he was by the scorpion crawling its way up his body.

The son of Poseidon would have missed the reference entirely, if not for the fact Luke’s tone suddenly went from angry and self-righteous to quiet and thoughtful, and the change was drastic enough to drag Percy’s eyes up from certain death to look at his nemesis once more.

“. . . you know, you remind me of him a little,” the son of Hermes was musing, giving Percy a thoughtful look.

Percy, frozen in place, trying desperately not to agitate the scorpion clinging onto his shirt, whispered almost inaudibly, “Who?”

Abruptly, the nostalgia fled from Luke’s expression. He threw his head back and laughed scornfully, “Just another demigod called Yata. You have the same spirit – you’ll never stop fighting for what you believe in,” Luke’s handsome features twisted again with hate as he muttered almost too quietly for Percy to hear, “At least _he_ managed to escape from this place.”

Percy’s throat was uncomfortably dry as he rasped out, “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you worry, Percy,” Luke brushed him off and returned to smiling at him, watching coldly as the scorpion inched closer and closer to the son of Poseidon’s vulnerable neck. “There are other things you should probably focus on right now, wouldn’t you say?”

What happened after that was a blur, but Percy Jackson did remember the sting of the scorpion’s tail as it pierced his skin, the agony that flooded his veins as its poison set to work on him, the laugh Luke gave as he vanished into shadows, and the fleeting curiosity about a demigod called Yata, whom Percy had never heard of before.

Then the poison overwhelmed him and his world faded into darkness.

**_< \--first time-->_ **

When he woke up in the Infirmary and the full scope of Luke’s betrayal was revealed by his account of the events that had transpired; he stopped Annabeth before she could leave.

Percy wasn’t quite sure _why_ he grabbed the daughter of Athena’s sleeve, but he thought it might have had something to do with _hating_ the expression of utter betrayal that she was wearing, and being desperate to get rid of it by any means necessary.

Bloodshot, angry gray eyes looked at him in askance, and Percy retracted his hand as though he’d been burned. In order to avoid an awkward silence, he cast around desperately for something to say, and – for once thanking the gods for the randomness that being ADHD blessed him with – blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Who’s Yata?”

To his intense relief, the anger vanished from those gray eyes, replaced instead by a flicker of surprise. Annabeth’s brows furrowed, and she frowned as she replied, “He was just a demigod, Percy. He left the Camp a long time ago.”

He couldn’t quite keep his mouth from falling open in shock, “He _left_? Why?”

Annabeth bit her lip and shook her head, “I don’t know.”

Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously and she demanded, “Who did you hear that name from, anyway?”

His guilty silence was all the answer she needed, and to Percy’s dismay the anger and sadness returned to her face, darkening her eyes and making her look much older than she was.

With a curt, “Make sure to rest up, Seaweed Brain,” she stormed out of the room.

Percy stared helplessly after her, wondering if he should try to call her back. Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort (and she probably didn’t really want to talk to him right now, anyway), he tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

The son of Poseidon sighed.

**_< \--second time-->_ **

The second time Percy heard whispers about Yata was just before he left to find Grover in the Sea of Monsters.

Haunted by his dreams of Grover in a wedding dress (and more importantly, in _danger_ ), Percy had gone to the Big House to try to talk to Chiron about it. He’d just stepped over the threshold when he heard Chiron and Mr. D. conversing in low tones down the hall.

Curious despite himself (and didn’t curiosity kill the demigod?), the son of Poseidon snuck down the hall as quietly as possible, pausing outside the closed door and pressing his ear to the wood, praying for all he was worth that the centaur wouldn’t hear his heartbeat.

“—don’t think you should be so concerned, Chiron,” Mr. D. was saying, voice monotone and obviously uninterested in whatever topic the two co-leaders of Camp were discussing.

“Of course I’m concerned, Dionysus,” Chiron sounded slightly irritated, which was very unusual for him. “We’ve lost contact with Clarisse. She should have checked in _days_ ago.”

“You know how these Quests are,” the god of wine drawled.

“Exactly,” Chiron retorted, “Something is _wrong_ , Dionysus. I can feel it.”

Mr. D. heaved a put-upon sigh, and for a moment the two lapsed into silence.

When the centaur spoke again, he sounded strangely hesitant, “Do you think I should let Yata know Clarisse is missing?”

Percy’s heart skipped a beat in surprise when he heard Yata’s name, and the ensuing quiet was heavy before Dionysus replied, sounding supremely unconcerned, “Do what you want.”

Blood pounding in his ears, the son of Poseidon slowly began backing away down the hall, not eager to try his luck and eavesdrop any longer. Heart in his throat, Percy didn’t relax until he was halfway back to his cabin.

It was only then that he remembered why he had gone to the Big House in the first place. For a moment he considered going back to try again, but Tyson appeared and Percy found himself distracted with convincing his half-brother to stop terrifying the dryads.

Then, later that night, Chiron was banished from Camp, and Percy was forced to take matters into his own hands.

**_< \--third time-->_ **

About a week later, after a whirlwind of events (Luke was apparently now in command of a cruise ship, Percy had been turned into a _guinea pig_ , Grover was saved, Clarisse had almost become a Cyclops’ _bride_ , Nobody had triumphed again in the end, the Golden Fleece had been recovered, and Percy’s cousin – the _daughter of Zeus_ – had been _revived_ ), Percy found himself back in the Infirmary as Thalia Grace was carefully examined for any lingering effects that having spent several years as a _pine tree_ might have left her.

The guy from the Apollo Cabin had just given her a clean bill of health when Chiron came in and called out quietly to the daughter of Ares.

“Clarisse,” he said, “Yata wants to speak with you.”

Percy, who’d still been trying to wrap his head around the fact he had gained a _cousin_ (and a half-brother, now that he thought about it) in a matter of days, whipped his head around just in time to see surprise flicker across the beefy girl’s face. He watched in shock as her eyes actually _softened_ , and she stood up quickly to leave.

He was so surprised he couldn’t find his voice until she left the room, but then he couldn’t take it anymore and blurted out, “Who is Yata?”

“Her half-brother,” Chiron replied absently, giving Thalia a quick examination himself just to be absolutely _sure_ that everything was in order, “Another child of Ares.”

_Ares, huh?_ Percy thought, imagining some giant guy with rippling muscles for arms, beady brown eyes, coarse brown hair – a male version of Clarisse, really. His musing was interrupted, however, when Annabeth interjected from her place at Thalia’s bedside.

“Don’t ask Clarisse about him, Percy,” she warned, “It’s a sore subject.”

Percy still wasn’t quite satisfied, but then he thought about how Clarisse had just survived almost being married off to an old, monstrous Cyclops, and decided he could relent for the time being.

He was still curious, though.

**_< \--fourth time-->_ **

Three years passed, and eventually Percy forgot about the mysterious son of Ares. But then the Labyrinth was destroyed, Camp Half-Blood began to lay plans for how to fend off Kronos, and his name came up again.

Representatives from each of the Cabins had gathered around the War Table, and were discussing various ideas for defenses to install, tactics to implement, supplies to gather, and any other feasible ways to prepare for an attack on Olympus, when Chris Rodriguez suddenly brightened and turned to his girlfriend.

“Clarisse,” he began, “We need all the help we can get, right? Why don’t you call Yata and ask him to come back?”

Eager for something to distract themselves from the fact they’d been getting pretty much nowhere, the rest of the table quieted down to listen.

“Yata?” Silena Beauregard from Aphrodite asked, looking puzzled. Then her expression cleared as she placed the name, and sadness darkened her eyes. “I remember him. Mother said his love life was going to be _disastrous_.” 

(For a moment Percy couldn’t help but feel kinship with this demigod he’d never met, even though he was a son of Ares, because the son of Poseidon _knew_ what it was like to have the goddess of love twisting everything to get her kicks.)

Perhaps that was why the burning curiosity that had been lying dormant within him for the past three years suddenly flared up and led him to open his mouth.

“Hold up,” Percy interjected, because he could see he wasn’t the only one unfamiliar with the name, “Can someone please tell me who Yata is? I’ve heard some rumors, but . . . .”

He trailed off, surprised when Clarisse replied immediately, “He’s the Vanguard of Ares.”

“Vanguard?” Percy blinked, confused.

“Yata is a son of Ares,” Chiron said simply, “He left Camp with his father’s blessing five years ago. It’s frankly amazing he’s been able to survive on his own for so long.”

Percy digested this while Clarisse looked proud on her half-brother’s behalf.

“Wait,” Michael Yew of Apollo protested, “We’re gonna trust a guy who hasn’t been seen in five years? How do we know Kronos hasn’t gotten to him?”

Clarisse whirled on him, teeth bared in a snarl of fury, “Don’t you _dare_ talk bad about him! Yata would _never_ turn.”

“Calm down, Clarisse,” Chiron tried to soothe her, “It’s a valid question. Not everyone knows Yata as well as you do.”

But the daughter of Ares shook her head, refusing to back down.

“First it was the chariot and the stupid _rhymes_ ,” she sneered, clenching a fist and slamming it down on the table, “and now _this_. I’ve had enough. _Ares Cabin_ has had _enough_.”

“What are you saying, Clarisse?” Annabeth asked warily as the husky girl stood up, face crimson with fury.

“I’m saying Ares is done with being disrespected,” Clarisse snarled. She drew her knife from her belt and threw it down, embedding the blade into the wood of the table, “His children – including his Vanguard – will not fight in this battle unless we are shown the respect we deserve. Good luck winning this war without us.”

Tossing her head, the daughter of Ares stormed out of the Big House, leaving the rest of the gathered demigods staring after her in horror. Casting them an apologetic look, Chris stood up to leave as well.

“I’ll go try and talk to her,” he said. He left, and the remaining demigods found their eyes drawn to the knife embedded in the table, gazing at it with morbid fascination.

Somehow, Percy didn’t think Clarisse would relent.

The Battle for Olympus would have to be fought without Ares.

( _Who must Yata have been_ , Percy wondered, _if dissing him was enough for Clarisse to consider it the last straw?_ )

**_< \--fifth time-->_ **

The next few days were a blur for Percy (Beckendorf was _dead_ and Silena was a _traitor_ ), and some time in between being tricked by Nico into Hades’ realm and taking a dip in the River Styx he forgot again about the so-called Vanguard of Ares.

But then he arrived back on the streets of Manhattan and took down Hyperion with his new invulnerability; buying the demigods and their allies invaluable time to rest and treat their wounded for the night.

He and the other leaders (including Grover of the satyrs and dryads, and Thalia of the Hunters of Artemis) had commandeered one of the hotel suites and were using it as a headquarters for a quick meeting.

(Nobody mentioned how three Cabin leaders were missing, or how there were so many more shrouds waiting to be burned.)

Annabeth had just finished consulting Daedalus’ shield, and they were just completing a rather grim assessment of what would happen tomorrow (the day Percy turned sixteen, the day Typhon would reach Olympus, the day of _prophecy_ ) when Clarisse held up a hand for quiet.

(Something about the daughter of Ares had changed within the past twenty-four hours, Percy thought. The obvious change was the red aura of power – Ares’ blessing – that still flickered around her form every once in a while, but Percy thought the reason her eyes were more serious, the reason she looked _older_ and more world-weary had more to do with the fact she’d held her best friend’s cooling corpse earlier in the day.)

Clarisse took a deep breath and was unusually serious when she said, “We need all the help we can get, right?”

Reluctantly, nursing injuries that all of them (except for the son of Poseidon) had sustained during the day of fighting, the gathered leaders nodded. Clarisse took this as her cue.

“Why don’t we call the Vanguard of Ares?” she suggested, “Why don’t we call Yata?”

There was silence for a moment as they all turned this idea over in their heads, and then Annabeth decided it by heaving a sigh and saying, “I don’t see what we have to lose at this point.”

Upon receiving the weary assent of the others, Clarisse stepped out to make an IM call.

Her eyes were brighter when she came back (lit with a light that just might have been _hope_ ), and her voice was crisp when she reported, “He said he’s on his way.”

(And if everyone left to tend to their duties after that with shoulders that were slightly more relaxed than when they gathered for the meeting, no one said anything about it.)

**_< \--sixth time-->_**

The fighting in the streets began anew the next day, though this time there was more of a feeling of _todayisthedaythisends_ and _fightforallyouareworthbecausethereisnotomorrow_ shared by both demigods and monsters, making both sides ten times as ferocious and determined.

The demigods managed to hold their positions until around noon, but then the endless number of monsters that just _kept on coming_ began to overwhelm them, and their defenses began to buckle.

Slowly but surely, the children of the gods and their allies were pushed back, steadily losing ground to _teeth and claws_ and _creatures that were born in the darkest place on Earth_ , beings who wanted nothing more than to _bathe in their_ ichor _-imbued blood_.

The Ares and Aphrodite Cabins in particular were feeling the strain: the children of war struggling to make up for their fellow campers’ weaker skills with a blade. They were hard-pressed to hold the two-block radius they’d managed to secure around the Empire State Building, but without reinforcements their future was looking bleak.

Gritting her teeth as she dragged the _drakon_ ’s corpse behind her, her father’s blessing still sizzling in the air around her, renewed with the battle, Clarisse was just about to call an extremely reluctant retreat when a column of crimson flames erupted at the back of the crowd of monsters. In an instant, half of the legion of gods-damned creatures they’d been trying (and failing) to fend off were gone, burned away into nothing but dust that was already drifting away on the wind.

A ripple of shock ground the fighting to a momentary halt, as one by one monsters and demigods alike turned to stare at the enormous cloud of monster-dust that had abruptly billowed up overhead.

One of the monsters closest to the strange fire’s epicenter roared and charged forward, slashing at some unknown assailant.

There was another lick of crimson flame, and the monster was reduced to dust.

(The rest of the monsters shifted uneasily, a deep primal feeling welling up in them and informing them they were caught between a rock and a hard place.)

Clarisse gaped along with the rest of her brothers and sisters, shocked by how their enemies had been reduced to half their numbers in a matter of seconds. Then a suspicion occurred to her, making her heart swell and her lips slowly spread in a genuine smile.

“What are you waiting for, maggots?” she screamed at her shell-shocked companions, causing them to startle and turn to her. With a bloodthirsty smile, a look of glee in her eye, and her father’s blessing crackling in the air around her, she truly looked like a child of war.

“Let’s end these freaks!” she hollered, raising her sword, “For Olympus!”

“ _For Olympus!_ ” the demigods roared back, and charged into the melee once more, taking the still-confused monsters by surprise. In an instant, the remaining number of monsters had been decimated. Screaming in triumph, the demigods felt their blood begin to sing (they were hard-wired for war, after all), and moved forward as one great entity, reinvigorated because _those crimson flames had given them a fighting chance_.

Clarisse lead the charge, fighting her way through teeth and claws, cutting a clear path to the end of the street, where those crimson flames were making quick work of the few remaining monsters.

_Finally_ , she thought with relief, slamming her fist into a scaly face with glee, not even pausing to watch the _dracanae_ crumble to dust, _the Vanguard of Ares has come home._

As though in reply to her thoughts, a voice rose from the epicenter of the chaos at the far end of the street. It was deeper than she remembered, but she recognized the owner without having to see their face.

“Bring it on, _bakemono_! _Omae wo korosu!_ ”

Clarisse allowed herself a small smile before ramming her sword through another _dracanae’s_ chest.

Perhaps the day could be won after all.

**V . O . A .**

Percy Jackson and his group had been pushed back to the entrance of the Empire State Building, trying frantically to keep the army of monsters they were facing from storming the lobby. 

The son of Poseidon was in the thick of the fighting, doing his best to hold the line a few feet from the front door. All around him, his friends were tiring and making mistakes, succumbing to poisonous claws or sharp fangs and having to be dragged away from the fighting – screaming in agony – by increasingly frantic dryads.

Percy was doing his best to stay focused and intercept the brunt of the assault. His shirt had been torn to shreds ages ago, his armor ripped free by a lucky swipe from a Laiystragonian giant.

Annabeth was standing to his right, gray eyes fierce and Celestial bronze blade flashing in the sunlight as she stabbed yet another _dracanae_ in the heart (and somehow she always unerringly made sure the small of his back – his _only_ weak point – was protected by her own body).

“To your left!” a child of Hephaestus screamed, and Percy automatically brought Riptide up to bear, metal clanging on metal as the blade stopped the attack of a _telekhine_ ’s short sword. Sending his own glare in reply to the monster’s snarl, the son of Poseidon flicked his wrist (in a move that reminded him painfully of _LukeandKronos_ and the fact that _todaywashisdestiny_ ), and the diminutive creature’s weapon went flying.

The _telekhine_ barely had time to shriek in displeasure before Annabeth was sliding her own blade home between its ribs.

As the monster disintegrated into the world’s smelliest sand castle, the blonde-haired girl moved closer to the black-haired boy, causing tingles of that strange _awareness_ to creep up his spine.

“We’re not going to be able to hold on much longer,” her grim declaration was barely above a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

_I know_ , Percy thought, but didn’t have the heart (nor breath) to say it aloud. He panted, feeling his lips thin into a frown even as he fended off another attack from some kind of half-boar, half-dog. It was a moment before he had enough time to murmur back, voice hard with determination, “We have to hold on as long as we can.”

“I know that, Seaweed Brian,” her attempt at humor was brittle at best, but it was enough to cause his lips to twitch into the vaguest definition of a smile.

Another demigod further down the line fell, collapsing to the dirt with a terrifying, final _stillness_ , and Percy’s smile vanished. His throat, already hoarse from yelling commands and screaming war-cries, was ravaged once more as he opened his mouth to shout, to vent the burning tidal wave of _anger_ and _helplessness_ that was rising up inside of him –

Then crimson fire erupted from down the street and the dying screams of monsters of all shapes and sizes drowned him out entirely.

Freezing in shock, monsters and demigods alike whirled to gape in amazement as a giant mushroom cloud billowed up from where an entire contingent of enemy Cyclops had been standing ( _What flame_ , Percy wondered with a peculiar kind of hysteria creeping into his thoughts, _could possibly destroy_ Cyclops _, which had been born to withstand Hephaestus’ forge-fires?_ )

Then the smoke cleared and Percy Jackson caught his first glimpse of the fabled Vanguard of Ares.

His first thought – ridiculous though it was – went something like: _How can he be a son of Ares when he’s so_ small _?_

Indeed, the Vanguard was much shorter than Percy had expected (the other demigod couldn’t have been much taller than _him_ , for crying out loud), and had a much slimmer build than any child of Ares Percy had ever seen (but he was built wiry like a dancer).

The Vanguard of Ares wore light armor over a long-sleeved white shirt and black shorts, and a dark beanie was pulled low, keeping his wild-looking chestnut hair in place. A spear was slung across his shoulders, and his face was twisted into an expression of such ferocity that any doubts the son of Poseidon had about his parentage immediately disappeared.

(But what really grabbed Percy’s attention was the aura of something _red_ that sizzled around the other demigod, a clear warning to any and all not to get too close, unless they wanted to _burn._ )

“Is that Ares’ mark?” Grover’s voice was slightly awed. From the corner of his eye, Percy saw Annabeth shake her head, “No, I don’t think so – Ares doesn’t bless his children with fire, so it must be something else.”

The sons of Ares and Poseidon met eyes for an instant across the battlefield, fierce hazel boring into shocked sea green, and then a monster recovered their wits enough to charge at the new player on the field. 

The Vanguard’s eyes flickered away from Percy’s and zeroed in on the new threat. Snarling, the young man flipped his spear from his shoulders and threw it hard enough to pin the slobbering monster to the ground; he followed through with his throw, moving with surprising quickness and agility, dashing over to the fallen creature even as the other monsters surrounding him regained their senses and closed in.

With one tug, he yanked his weapon from the corpse and stabbed two more servants of Kronos in the neck before raising the spear above his head and twirling it with surprising skill, unleashing a hail of now-familiar crimson flames upon the crowd of monsters surrounding him; the result was a chorus of blood-curdling wails and a circle forming around the Vanguard as creatures of all shapes and sizes scrambled back, desperate to escape the firestorm of death.

The Vanguard – _Yata, wasn’t it?_ some hazy part of Percy’s mind recalled – dropped into a ready position, spear in hand, daring the monsters to come at him again.

Then the earth shook and an army of the undead dragged themselves out of the ground, followed quickly by the son of Hades and the Lord of the Underworld himself, riding a chariot pulled by black horses made of hellfire and bone.

Within an instant, the street in front of the Empire State Building descended into chaos once more, and Percy lost sight of the Vanguard as the monsters redoubled their efforts to break into the lobby, seeing it as their only chance to escape from the double-pronged attack of immortal soldiers and flames that reduced them to dust.

Percy was swallowed up by the fighting as the demigods – filled with renewed hope – fought to save Olympus, until he had to retreat because his Fate beckoned (and he found he was glad he got to see the hallowed Vanguard of Ares once before he died, because let’s face it: Percy knew his chances of surviving this were slim, invulnerability or no).

And so, Riptide ( _the cursed blade_ , the darkest part of his mind whispered despairingly) clutched tight in his hand, Percy Jackson left the defense of Olympus in the hands of Thalia, daughter of Zeus, and entered the elevator with Annabeth at his side, her beautiful gray eyes narrowed and dark with grim determination.

“Seaweed Brain,” she said softly, before clearing her throat and trying again, “Percy . . . .”

It took everything he had to give her a reassuring look, but his voice was sincere when he said, “I know. Don’t worry, Annabeth. We’ll make it out of this.”

She gave him a small smile, and he reached out (to what? touch her face? grab her hand?), but then the elevator doors slid open and they stepped out into a ravaged Olympus.

_It’ll have to wait ‘til later_ , he thought, then gritted his teeth, _There_ will _be a later._

Moving as one, the two demigods set out for the throne room, trusting a child of Ares they’d never met and a god who was known for being an outcast to keep things under control down below so they could _finish this_ , once and for all.

**_< \--seventh time-->_ **

Later, after Kronos had been defeated, Luke was dead, and Percy had turned down immortality in exchange for an oath from the gods, he went to check on the wounded half-bloods, and in doing so finally met the Vanguard of Ares face-to-face.

The strangely-built son of the war god (so different from his half-brothers-and-sisters), was crouching over a girl from Hermes Cabin, re-bandaging a gruesome wound to her shoulder with an ease that spoke of much practice.

Clarisse was sitting not far away from him, speaking softly to Chris Rodriguez, who was doing his best to comfort his half-sister, and looked up when Percy’s shadow fell over the group.

The daughter of Ares didn’t bristle immediately at his presence as she might once have several days ago (before she had slain a _drakon_ and held her best friend’s hand as Silena gave herself over to Thanatos). Instead, she gave him a twitch of the lips that _might just_ be considered a smile, her eyes dark with pain but also victorious.

“Not bad, Prissy,” she said, and he was just too tired to rise to the bait, so he replied, “Not bad yourself, Clarisse,” and glanced over to see the Vanguard of Ares had finished dressing the girl’s wound and was considering him with a small scowl.

Undeterred, Percy held out a hand.

“I’m Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon,” he said, “And you’re the Vanguard of Ares. I’ve heard a lot about you, but I’ve never actually heard your full name.”

Hard hazel eyes bored into his own for a moment, before the Vanguard grunted and rose to his feet, shaking the proffered hand.

“Damn right I’m the Vanguard,” the son of Ares responded in barely-accented English, his voice deeper than Percy had expected, “Misaki Yata. Pleased to meet you,” the Vanguard suddenly glared at him, and growled, “But you better call me Yata, or I’ll show you why no one was able to best me in the Arena.”

“Deal,” Percy declared, even as Clarisse interjected, “That was years ago, Yata. I’ve been practicing, and I’m sure I can wipe the floor with you.”

The Vanguard – _Yata_ , Percy reminded himself – dropped his hand and turned to glare indignantly at his younger half-sister, “I haven’t just been sitting on my ass for the past five years, Clarisse.”

Their friendly banter was interrupted by the girl from Hermes groaning in pain, and Yata immediately returned to her side, crouching down to poke at her ribs as gently as possible. His face was grim as he reported, “She’s broken at least two of these. You’ll have to call someone from Apollo – I’ve done all I can for her.”

Percy was just about to turn and wave Will Solace over, when Clarisse gasped and hissed, “Yata, you’re _bleeding_!”

Alarmed, Percy and Chris gave the Vanguard a quick once-over, and, sure enough – spotted a rivulet of blood sliding down Yata’s leg. 

“ _Kuso_ ,” Yata hissed, easing himself down and pulling up his pants-leg far enough that the other demigods could clearly see a once-white bandage stained crimson. With surprisingly deft hands, Yata removed the soiled bandage – growling as the gauze stuck to his skin with the blood as an adhesive – and tossed it aside.

Concerned, the other three demigods bent to examine the wound, and abruptly concluded from the size and shape of it that it couldn’t possibly have been made by any blade or claw, which meant he had not sustained it in the Battle for Olympus.

“Yata,” Clarisse demanded, her face pale, “is that a _gunshot wound_?!”

“It’s just a graze,” Yata deflected, reaching for some fresh gauze to staunch the bleeding.

The burly daughter of Ares’ face flushed with anger (and no small amount of concern) as she snapped, “What _happened_?”

“Nothing,” Yata replied, not looking up as he reapplied a bandage, pulling the white gauze tight and tying it off deftly.

Chris and Percy exchanged glances, and Clarisse opened her mouth – no doubt about to press for more information, but the Vanguard looked up at them with eyes that had seen and done too much, and said simply: “Leave it, Clarisse.”

The son of Poseidon was shocked when the brown-haired girl bit her lip but nonetheless reluctantly backed down without a fight.

They were all silent for a moment as Yata returned his pants-leg to its usual position (but he didn’t look like he wanted to risk trying to stand for a while). After a moment, Clarisse asked tentatively (and it was the first time Percy had ever heard her sounding even remotely hesitant), “Are you going to stay this time?”

Yata did not reply for a long while, and when he finally raised his head his expression was apologetic but firm.

“I can’t,” he sighed (and Clarisse’s shoulders slumped, not that she would ever admit it), “I have other duties. But,” he promised softly, “I will stay long enough to see the Camp settled.”

Clarisse brightened visibly at that, and her lips quirked up into a challenging smirk, “Good. I’ll have enough time to kick your ass in the Arena.”

Yata snorted, “You can try, Clarisse. Who was the one who taught you to wield a sword?”

The two half-siblings continued bantering with each other, and the atmosphere around the group gradually lightened. Percy was content to watch, but he couldn’t help but wonder –

Just who _was_ the Vanguard of Ares?

(The rumors had said that the Vanguard of Ares was fierce. They had not mentioned that he could wield flames, or what he had been up to the last five years.)


	3. Searching for the Vanguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late. We had a power outage yesterday, which meant no internet. 
> 
> Better late than never, I always say!
> 
> Some of you have asked what the Red Clan has been up to this whole time. Buckle up, you're about to find out...

**_< \--day one-->_ **

Kusanagi Izumo, second-in-command of HOMRA, _knew_ his day was going to be migraine-inducing from the moment he woke up to a message from the Red Clan’s Vanguard blinking on his phone screen:

_Hey, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I have some family things to take care of. I’ll be out of town for a while. Should be back soon. Keep the Blues out of our territory!_

_\--Yata_

_P.S. Sorry, Mikoto-san, but this was really sudden, so I didn’t have time to ask for permission._

It was disturbingly vague and rushed, which was completely unlike Yata.

_Oh, dear_ , Kusanagi thought as he stared blearily down at the screen. _The Clan won’t be happy about this. I need a drink. And a smoke._

Sure enough, Kusanagi had just opened the bar for the early morning rush and was wiping down his lovely mahogany counter when Kamamoto burst through the door, followed closely by Bandou and Chitose. Within the span of five minutes, every HOMRA member had flooded into the bar, taking up as much space as possible and muttering uneasily.

Totsuka and Anna appeared as well – the two having gone out earlier to enjoy the brisk morning chill and pick up lunch. Totsuka was carrying a plastic bag and cut through the crowd of restless Clansmen with ease. He reached the bar and gently set down the bag before giving Kusanagi a concerned look.

Kusanagi could only shrug in reply to the unasked question, and Totsuka frowned before turning to help Anna clamber up onto a stool.

Kamamoto finally broke the uneasy quiet, as Kusanagi had known he would.

“Kusanagi-san,” the rotund man began, eyebrows furrowed over his dark sunglasses, “Where’s Yata? What’s with the weird message he left?”

Kusanagi sighed and absently reached for a shot glass to polish. The glass was already sparkling, but Kusanagi nonetheless scrubbed at it with a white cloth, his hands restless as he replied, “I don’t know where Yata is, Kamamoto. I only know as much as the rest of you – Yata didn’t leave any more information besides the note he sent to the Clan’s network.”

He knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say, because the younger members of the Clan puffed up even more, incredulous indignation gathering like storm clouds on their brows.

“He didn’t tell _anyone_ where he was going?” Kamamoto exclaimed. “But what if he’s in trouble?”

“I’m sure Yata is fine,” Totsuka smoothly intervened, his soothing voice washing over them and dissipating some of the tension. The Clansmen relaxed a little. “Wherever he is, he can take care of himself. Besides, he said he’d be back soon. All we can do is have faith in him and wait.”

“I don’t like it,” Bandou grumbled. He would have said more, but a familiar, heavy tread sounded on the stairs leading up to the living area above the bar, and the entire Clan turned to see Suoh Mikoto yawning in the doorway.

The Red King moved with all the grace and carefully concealed strength of a particularly lazy panther. He nodded to them all as he made his way across the room to his usual couch. The Clan managed to wait until he dropped down on the leather and glanced at them all with his steady, molten gaze – then they burst out in a flurry of noise.

Kusanagi managed to calm them after a few moments, valiantly ignoring his exponentially increased longing for a cigarette. After HOMRA was miraculously quiet again, Totsuka asked what was on all their minds.

“King,” he said, “Have you heard from Yata at all?”

“No,” Mikoto replied, blinking once, long and slow.

The Clansmen started to clamor again, but Kusanagi cut them off with a stern, “Hey. Yata is eighteen. He’s more than old enough to make his own decisions. Sure, this is out of character for him, but he would let us know if he needed help.”

Totsuka nodded, cutting off the Clan’s unhappy murmurings with a bright smile. “Kusanagi-san is right. Let’s take it easy. I’m sure Yata will be back as soon as he can. When he returns, we can ask him questions, and he can answer if he wants to. For now, let’s just trust him to stay safe.”

The Clan looked slightly mollified by Totsuka’s reassurance, and a slight, lazy nod from Mikoto sealed the deal.

“Okay,” Kamamoto nodded determinedly, “Totsuka-san and Kusanagi-san are right. Besides, Yata-san would kick our butts if he thought we were looking down on him. Let’s hit the streets and make sure those Blues are staying out of our territory!”

A boisterous cheer erupted from the HOMRA ranks, and the younger Clansmen filed out the door until only Kusanagi, Totsuka, Anna, and Mikoto remained.

Kusanagi finally allowed himself a smoke break as Totsuka pulled out his latest hobby – that silly video camera – and proceeded to coo with Anna over whatever he had already captured on film.

Nodding to his King, Kusanagi stepped outside and lit up. He leaned against the brick wall of his beloved bar and contemplated the blue of the sky. His eyes trailed the whorls of cigarette smoke up and up until they disappeared into the atmosphere, and Kusanagi allowed himself a small sigh of contentment.

When he finally snuffed out his cigarette and flicked the butt into the trash, Kusanagi returned to the bar just as his first patron of the day arrived. The blond man smiled as he took his customer’s order, and refused to acknowledge the fact there was still a nagging uneasiness in the back of his mind.

_This isn’t like you_ , _Yata_ , he thought. _What’s going on?_

**_< \--day two-->_ **

Kusanagi was still anxious when forty-eight hours passed without a word from the Red Clan’s Vanguard. He tried to distract himself by focusing on scrubbing every bit of dirt from a particularly stubborn champagne flute, but his persistence at trying to ignore the elephant in the room was proving unsuccessful.

He was absurdly grateful when the bell chimed to announce the entrance of a new customer. His grin faltered as he looked up, however, and met a pair of beautiful pale blue eyes.

“Seri-chan,” he greeted, taking in the Blue Clan’s right-hand woman, dressed in her usual crisp, immaculate uniform. “I take it this isn’t a social visit. Would you like a drink anyway?”

Awashima Seri shook her head, her eyes apologetic, “I can’t, Kusanagi-san. I’m on duty.”

The blond bartender sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, giving his counterpart a charming smile, “That’s too bad. What can I help you with, Seri-chan?”

“I need to speak with Yatagarasu in order to get his official statement for the Mole incident,” she replied, and Kusanagi’s smile vanished.

“Ah,” he said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. Yata’s out of town right now, you see.”

“He is?” Awashima asked, startled. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Kusanagi’s lips thinned and the truth was bitter on his tongue, “No. Sorry, Seri-chan. I’ll let him know you’d like to speak with him when he returns.”

“Thank you,” she said, still blinking in slight shock. Then she shook her head and gave him a small smile.

“I have to get back to work,” she said, “But I’ll try to come by for a drink later tonight.”

“You’re always welcome here, Seri-chan,” Kusanagi returned her smile, and waved as she exited HOMRA headquarters in a swirl of blue uniform.

The yawning pit of unease in his gut continued to fester and grow.

**_< \--day three-->_ **

The next day, the Clan gathered at the bar for an impromptu meeting. Although most members maintained the excuse they were there only because they had nothing better to do, it was quietly acknowledged the real reason the Red Clan had seen fit to gather and mope at their headquarters was because they longed for a sense of solidarity. (And no one wanted to give vocal validation of the unspoken consensus that Yata’s absence was sorely missed.)

Even when the Clansmen’s collective sadness drove the patrons from his bar for the day, Kusanagi didn’t have the heart to banish them to the outdoors. The blond man gritted his teeth as he wiped down the bar, frustrated he didn’t know what to say, what to do. Clan morale was Totsuka’s department.

Yata had also been unofficially in charge of morale – he offered the foil to Totsuka’s gentle prodding; his naturally loud brashness was perfect for getting Clansmen psyched up, for boosting their confidence before and during battle.

The slightly glum silence was suddenly disturbed by Mikoto bolting upright from his sprawled position on the couch.

The unexpected movement drew the gathered Clansmen’s eyes like moths to a flame, and all noise cut out abruptly.

The Red King didn’t appear to notice their intense stares, his molten eyes focused on something far away in the distance, on something Kusanagi suspected only he could see.

“King?” Totsuka asked. “What is it?”

Mikoto continued to stare into the distance, face unreadable as he murmured: “Yata just activated his Aura.”

Totsuka frowned and the gathered Clansmen tensed, “Is he in danger?”

The Red King took a while to respond, but after a few minutes he swung his legs off the side of the couch, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t know,” Mikoto admitted. He remained contemplative for a moment, and the Clan caught a glimpse of the powerful creature coiling under his skin, before he leaned back and threw his arms over the back of the couch.

When he spoke again, the Red King’s voice was calm and smooth as water-worn stone, “But, Yata can take care of himself.”

This was the mantra the Red Clansmen chanted to themselves for the next seven days, tempers fraying with each passing hour there was no word from Yata. The Clansmen picked fights all over the city and were unusually vicious when taking down punks. Totsuka did his best to calm them, but the strange silence from their Vanguard made his words fall on deaf ears.

HOMRA raised hell for a week, and then the Blue King came calling.

**_< \--day ten-->_ **

The sky was heavy with storm clouds when the Blue King darkened HOMRA’s doorway, raindrops splattering on the windowpanes. The tall, slender man smiled serenely as he stepped over the threshold and patiently dried his glasses, his uniform slightly damp but otherwise perfect, not a hair out of place.

Awashima was at his shoulder, and she flashed Kusanagi a quick look of concern before straightening her shoulders and marching after her King, who had made his way unerringly through the dim bar to where Mikoto was reclining on the couch.

As always, the atmosphere grew heavy with the two Kings in the same room. Kusanagi felt as though the storm clouds outside had invited themselves in, the lightning flickering in their depths transforming into tension that crackled through the air when golden eyes met violet.

“Suoh Mikoto,” Munakata Reisi said cordially.

“Munakata,” Mikoto responded with tiny nod of acknowledgement, more of his chin dropping a few centimeters to his chest than anything, but the Blue King didn’t seem to mind, and went straight to business.

“You have been tense for more than a week now, Suoh,” Munakata scolded quietly. “Your Aura is starting to spill over, which is very unlike you. What’s going on?”

“Never you mind, Munakata,” the Red King responded, a lazy smirk stretching across his lips.

The Blue King sighed, “Believe me, I would much rather be doing other things right now. Unlike you, I have mountains of paperwork to wrangle. However,” Munakata’s violet eyes flashed, “your Weissman level is rising, and neutralizing the danger you pose to civilians takes precedence. So I’ll ask again, Suoh: What is going on?”

Mikoto’s golden gaze sharpened as he drawled, “What if I told you it wasn’t the Blue Clan’s business, Munakata?”

“If you were to say that, then I’d inform you that as leader of Scepter 4, the safety of every person in Shizume City is my business,” Munakata retorted, and all eavesdropping members of HOMRA frowned at his tone. “You threaten their safety with your rising Weissman levels, and I need to know why. Let me do my job.”

“Fair enough,” Mikoto conceded.

“My Vanguard has been out of town for several days,” the Red King said, “and for the past week, his Aura has been feeling strangely muffled. I can’t pinpoint where he is. Even Anna has tried, but her marbles just keep spinning on their axes.”

“I did not think Yata Misaki was the type to be out of the Red Clan’s territory for so long,” Munakata remarked, eyebrows raised in surprise. “This is indeed cause for concern. Have you tried to contact him?”

“Of course,” Totsuka interjected. “We’ve tried calling him every day, but he won’t answer – both his phone and watch go straight to voicemail.”

“I see,” the Blue King looked thoughtful. “Suoh, my professional opinion is that you should give Yata-kun two more days to respond. If he does not make contact by then, I urge you to reach out to other resources.”

The Red Clan burst into an instant uproar at his suggestion, with the general consensus being, “We don’t need advice from no stinkin’ Blues!”

The Red King ignored his Clan’s blustering, and the two Kings remained oases of quiet in the tumult, seeming to have a silent conversation with their eyes alone.

Finally Mikoto rumbled, “Enough,” and HOMRA grudgingly settled down. The crimson-haired man regarded his counterpart stoically from his place on the sofa, and the Blue King looked back without blinking.

“We’ll give Yata forty-eight hours,” Mikoto said. “Then we’ll get serious.”

“Very well,” Munakata nodded, turning on his heel to leave. “Work on containing your Aura, Suoh. Keep me posted. And if there’s anything I can do—”

The Blue King was cut off as most of the Red Clansmen started talking again, insisting it was HOMRA business. Munakata remained unfazed by the interruption, and continued to the door. He stopped on the threshold and glanced back at the Red King.

“Until next time, Suoh,” he bid, and Mikoto inclined his head.

The atmosphere in the bar lightened considerably without the pressure of _two_ Swords of Damocles hovering overhead, and Kusanagi and Totsuka managed to bring the crowd of rowdy Clansmen to a dull roar in short order.

“Two days?” the blonde bartender murmured to Totsuka later that evening as he put chairs up on tables.

“Two days,” the brunet repeated, brown eyes dark with concern.

Kusanagi heaved a sigh, and stared out at the rain.

**_< \--day twelve-->_ **

It had been nearly a fortnight since their Vanguard vanished with barely a word, and the Red Clan was ready to tear apart the city – scratch that, the _country_ – to find him.

They flooded Kusanagi’s bar, inundating the space with a cacophony of noise, and allowed light to glint off of too many blades and bats for his patrons’ comfort. Within the span of five minutes his customers tossed back their drinks and scurried out the door, taking care to edge around the areas where the Red Clansmen had taken up their raucous vigil.

The blond bartender swore he could feel an ulcer developing from his worry over Yata, and seeing as this was the _third_ time in the past week that his customers had been scared away, it didn’t take much for his temper to flare.

“ _Quiet_!” Kusanagi boomed, and was slightly gratified when the younger Clansmen shut their mouths immediately, expressions suitably cowed.

“Look,” he sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I know we’re all worried about Yata, but I think it’s time we tried something different to find him.”

“What do you suggest, Kusanagi-san?” Chitose asked.

“You’re not going to like it,” Kusanagi muttered to himself, before raising his voice so his words carried clearly through the room. “I think we need to call in a favor with the Blue Clan. Wait,” he gave his indignant fellow Clansmen a stern look through his sunglasses, “hear me out. It’s a fact we don’t have the same technological resources as they do. The truth is they have a better chance of finding Yata than we do.

“We’ve waited long enough for Yata to contact us on his own,” the blond man continued, “I think at this point we can all agree something is wrong. Therefore, I think it’s best we don’t waste any time. The bottom line is we need to find our Vanguard as fast as possible, and the Blue Clan has the best chance of doing that.”

His words took the wind out of the HOMRA members’ sails, and it sent a pang through his heart to see them look so defeated.

“Alright,” Kamamoto muttered after a while. He made eye contact with each Clansman, the de-facto fourth-in-command in Yata’s absence. The rotund man looked as though the words pained him to say, but he managed to grind out, “Let’s go see the Blue Clan, then. For Yata.”

“For Yata,” HOMRA repeated, expressions glowing with fierce determination.

“Oh dear,” Totsuka said faintly, quiet enough that only Kusanagi could hear him. The bartender looked at the brunet in askance, and Totsuka grimaced, “Fushimi-kun may not react well.”

Kusanagi felt as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs. In all the commotion and gut-clenching worry of the past two weeks, he had completely forgotten about their wayward Clansman and his turbulent connection to their Vanguard.

_Shit_ , Kusanagi thought, before grabbing his coat and following the entirety of the Red Clan out the door, heading toward Scepter 4 headquarters.

**V . O . A .**

Fushimi Saruhiko reacted to the news about as well as could be expected. His face drained of all blood and his eyes went hard and cold behind the glinting frames of his glasses. 

_Shark eyes,_ Kusanagi thought absently. He had rarely seen this expression on Fushimi’s face – in fact he could count the number of incidents on one hand, and without fail all of them had to do with a certain boisterous Vanguard.

“What,” Fushimi drawled in a voice void of all inflection, “did you say?”

Kusanagi grimaced, but Totsuka was the one who was brave enough to break the news once again, “We haven’t heard from Yata-kun in a few days, Fushimi-kun, which is why we have come to request assistance from the Blue Clan.”

“You haven’t heard from Misaki in nearly _two weeks_ , and are only now asking for assistance?” The blue-haired young man ground out, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.

“We wanted to be sure Yata needed our help. We didn’t want to embarrass him by calling in the cavalry when it wasn’t necessary,” Totsuka said. “Please, Fushimi-kun.”

Their former Clansman fixed them all with a furious, frigid stare for several more moments, his eyes lingering on Mikoto and Totsuka, before he released the hilt of his sword and slouched into a deceptively relaxed posture.

“Fine,” Fushimi said. “Come with me. I’ll take you to see the Captain.”

**_< \--day thirteen-->_ **

A task force was set up and the Blue Clan immediately funneled all their considerable technological resources into investigating Yata’s disappearance. Within twenty-four hours, to the intense relief of HOMRA, the Blue Clan had Yata’s trail.

They used surveillance cameras from stoplights and ATMs to track him from the area where the Mole incident had taken place to his apartment (and to Totsuka’s horror their young Vanguard appeared to be _limping_ ). Despite the lackluster quality of the grainy footage, it was easy to see Yata looked exhausted as he dragged himself inside his apartment building.

Considering his apparent level of fatigue, everyone looking on in the cramped Scepter 4 headquarters (it had not been built to contain two Clans at the same time) expected Yata to remain inside at least until dawn. The restless Clansmen frowned when Fuse fast-forwarded the surveillance tape, and Yata was seen exiting his apartment not two hours later, a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Where is Yata-san going?” Kamamoto mumbled as Yata hailed a cab and took off. “He _never_ takes a taxi. He always uses his skateboard.”

“That’s what’s troubling,” Blue Clansman Himori Akiyama murmured, switching to a different camera feed. The two Clans watched in silence as Yata’s taxi weaved its way through Shizume City traffic until it stopped at a bus station and Yata stepped out, tossing the driver a wad of yen. “According to the bus station’s ticket records, Yata Misaki booked a ticket to Tokyo International Airport. Airport records indicate he proceeded to buy a one-way ticket to Washington D.C. This happened thirteen days ago, and it is the farthest we have been able to trace him.”

“ _America_?” Chitose blurted out, incredulous. “What the hell would our Vanguard be doing there?”

The two Clans devolved into a dozen side conversations, each speculating about what reason Yata Misaki could have possibly had for going to America.

Fushimi, who had been lurking in the shadows toward the back of the room, went absolutely still with a suddenness that had Totsuka zeroing in on him in concern. The young man may have been a turncoat, but he was still HOMRA as far as Totsuka was concerned, and the brunet worried about him the same as any other member of the Red Clan.

Something cold dropped into Totsuka’s stomach when he realized Fushimi had gone pale as a sheet, the glow of the various screens around the room leeching the color from his skin until only white remained.

“Fushimi-kun,” the rare sternness from HOMRA’s third-in-command snagged everyone’s attention, and the young man in question flinched, “What’s wrong?”

For a long moment Fushimi didn’t reply, simply stared at Totsuka with an expression of mounting horror growing in his eyes, threatening to shatter his mask of aloofness. Totsuka reached out, alarmed by the _fear_ and _hollowness_ he glimpsed Fushimi trying desperately to hide—

The blue-haired young man jerked into motion and stepped forward to a computer terminal before Totsuka could make contact, but the brunet didn’t allow Fushimi’s avoidance to deter him, and crowded close as the Blue Clansman started to type furiously. In moments, Fushimi brought up news footage of a terrible storm system that had torn across the continental United States a week previous.

The news clip was in English, and Totsuka’s brow furrowed in confusion. He only caught about every third word of whatever the news anchors were saying, but most of his attention was on Fushimi, who was staring at the storm clouds with such intensity Totsuka was almost surprised the computer screen didn’t catch fire.

Then, from her position tucked against Mikoto on one of the few chairs available in the room, little Anna gasped. Her wide red eyes also appeared to be fixated on the swirling clouds, and she looked absolutely terrified.

Both Clans shifted anxiously, disturbed by their Clan members’ odd reactions.

The blue-haired young man ignored the muttering that swelled to a low buzz throughout the room and continued glaring at the storm clouds.

“That _idiot_ ,” he growled, and Totsuka realized with a jolt of surprise that he had never seen Fushimi quite so angry. His was a cold fury, but the brunet had never witnessed this level of intensity, not even in those final heart-wrenching days before Fushimi had mutilated himself and turned his back on HOMRA.

“What’s going on?” Awashima demanded. “Fushimi, report!”

Predictably, Fushimi ignored his superior’s demands and limped to his locker, where he proceeded to rummage around. After a minute of rifling through his belongings, Fushimi pulled out a large, oddly-shaped coin that glinted gold in the blue glow cast by the computer screens.

Satisfied, Fushimi Saruhiko turned to consider the room at large. His blue eyes lingered for a moment on the albino child shivering against her King, and, in an uncharacteristic display of compassion, he said, “Don’t worry, Anna. I’ll explain later.”

Disregarding both Clans’ stunned looks at the fact _he had tried to comfort Kushina Anna_ , Fushimi announced, “I need to create a rainbow.”

He made the absurd declaration with a completely straight face, and it was the tension building in his shoulders more than anything that snapped Totsuka out of his shocked stupor.

“Alright, Fushimi-kun,” the third-in-command of HOMRA said, and moved to help.

**V . O . A .**

It didn’t take long for the gathered Clansmen to spill out into an adjoining courtyard of the Scepter 4 headquarters, where Himori had remembered there was a functioning fountain.

Bemused, the Red and Blue Clansmen took up vigil on opposite sides of the courtyard, staring as Fushimi and Totsuka stepped up to the innocuously bubbling fountain.

“I need you to heat the water,” Fushimi told his once fellow-Clansman, “We need to create a rainbow out of mist.”

Totsuka nodded and activated his Aura: an instant later, magenta butterflies were swirling through the air, fluttering delicately to the fountain and brushing up against the streams of water, sending up billows of steam that faded into mist.

Once the brunet man had generated a relatively stable supply of mist, Fushimi raised his voice and intoned, “O Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow, accept my offering.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Fushimi hefted the strange coin he was holding and threw it into the mist. 

Certain that the blue-haired young man had finally lost his mind, the Clansmen listened attentively for the sound of the coin hitting the cobblestone on the other side of the fountain, but the expected clatter never came.

Somehow, they realized, _impossibly_ , the gold coin had disappeared into thin air.

The Clansmen didn’t have long to ponder this mystery, however, as an instant later the mist Totsuka had created gained a sentience of its own, wafting up and condensing into a vaguely humanoid shape that transformed into the visage of a beautiful woman with dark hair, olive skin, and warm brown eyes.

(At opposite ends of the courtyard, Suoh Mikoto and Munakata Reisi narrowed their eyes simultaneously.)

“I don’t usually heed mortals,” the beautiful woman said in a voice that echoed strangely, as though she were speaking from the other side of a canyon, her words reverberating off its nonexistent stone walls. “But your Sight is unclouded, Fushimi Saruhiko, and you are under my protection, so I will allow this. Who do you wish to contact?”

“Yata Misaki,” Fushimi replied, appearing completely unfazed by the woman’s inexplicable appearance. ( _Was she a Strain of some kind?_ the Clansmen wondered. _How does she know Fushimi?_ )

The dark-haired woman frowned apologetically, “I’m sorry, but I can’t fulfill your request. Yata Misaki is currently unavailable.”

Fushimi’s fists clenched, “What do you mean?”

“He’s alive and well,” the woman assured him. “But with the Second Titan War the wards at Camp Half-Blood have been strengthened, and I cannot reach him there.”

The woman’s image started to fade.

“Wait!” Fushimi shouted, desperate, but despite his pleas, the mist returned to normal water in a matter of seconds. There was a moment of silence as the onlookers all stared at the newly-formed puddle beside the fountain, and then both the Red and Blue Clansmen recovered enough from their shock to explode into questions. Their respective Kings simply watched quietly as their subordinates talked over each other, demanding to know what was going on.

“It’s Misaki’s story to tell,” the third-in-command of Scepter 4 snapped, surly. The young man remained facing the fountain, his expression hidden from all but Totsuka, who could practically _see_ Fushimi clam up as his stared listlessly at the puddle, whose only purpose now was to reflect the robin’s egg blue of the sky.

_What aren’t you telling us, Fushimi-kun?_ Totsuka wondered. _Why do you look as though Yata will never return?_ The brunet reached out, determined but unsure as to what he could do or say that would banish that heart-wrenching expression of carefully concealed distress from Fushimi’s face—

He was stopped by a flash of light as bright as the sun erupting right in front of Fushimi, and Totsuka cried out as he was blinded.

Scrubbing at his eyes, the two Clans’ startled oaths resonated in Totsuka’s ears as he blinked black spots away from his vision. When he could see clearly again, the brunet gasped in surprise and stumbled back.

Standing in front of Fushimi was yet another gorgeous woman, although this one was much more corporeal than the last: her shadow stretched out on the cobblestone, and Totsuka had no doubt she had somehow teleported herself into the heart of Scepter 4. Despite his alarm, Totsuka couldn’t help but stare in awe at the woman, who stood tall and had to be the most beautiful he’d ever seen. One moment she seemed to have long dark hair and Hispanic features; and in the next blonde hair and blue eyes.

Regardless of what she looked like, there was something irresistibly mesmerizing about her: she exuded a kind of energy Totsuka couldn’t help but be drawn to.

He was startled out of his daze by Fushimi snarling and reaching for his sword. The young man’s hiss was enough to rouse the rest of the Clansmen, and they followed his lead, standing alert and ready for battle.

Her visage settling on a strangely attractive mix between Japanese and Caucasian features, the woman looked unconcerned as the Clans simultaneously moved to surround her, taking up defensive positions around the courtyard.

“So this is the kind of welcome I can expect from my nephew’s second family? Why am I not surprised – your brutishness suits him,” she waved her hand flippantly and tossed her hair, “Don’t bother with the charade. I could destroy you all in an instant.”

When she spoke, the woman’s voice sounded like tinkling bells, and despite her snide comments, Totsuka found himself relaxing against his will.

_I don’t like her_ , Totsuka decided, disturbed by the fog that threatened to cloud his mind whenever he looked at the mysterious woman. And, as though she was aware of his thoughts, the woman’s eyes darted to him and she gave him a wide smile, her perfect teeth flashing in the sunlight.

_You will_ , her smile seemed to promise. _Whether you want to or not._

Fushimi brandished his sword, glaring as though he wasn’t effected at all by the woman’s charms, “What _are_ you?”

At Fushimi’s query, most of the Clansmen’s first thought was that the gorgeous woman _must_ be a Strain, because how else could she be able to change her appearance in the blink of an eye? The beautiful woman tilted her head, a gleeful look in her eye, and replied silkily, “Well, I’m something like Yata Misaki’s aunt – or stepmother, depending on how you look at it.”

The third-in-command of Scepter 4 narrowed his eyes as the rest of the Clansmen spluttered in shock.

_Yata-kun has never mentioned his mother_ , Totsuka realized with something like horror curdling in his stomach. _In all the years we’ve known him, I’ve never heard him talk about his past at all._

The brunet man struggled to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat because the realization stung: _It seems there’s much about our Vanguard that we don’t know._

There were a few moments of quiet muttering, before Munakata Reisi surprised them all by stepping forward and bowing elegantly.

“Lady Aphrodite,” the Blue King intoned, his face unreadable, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“You’re a shrewd one, aren’t you, Munakata Reisi,” ‘Aphrodite’ purred, her hair turning crimson. “I like that in a man.”

“Stop stalling,” the Red King growled from his position at the opposite end of the courtyard. Although his body language was relaxed, his eyes flashed and betrayed the fact he was done playing games.

Aphrodite looked unconcerned, “So violent, Suoh Mikoto. You remind me of my lover.”

She ran an assessing, appreciative gaze over the Red King, before smiling like a cat who had caught a canary, “No wonder Yata looks up to you like a father.”

Thoroughly rankled by the woman’s condescension, both Clans leaned forward, waiting for a sign from their sovereigns to attack. Aphrodite and Suoh Mikoto stared at each other, before the beautiful woman laughed and said coyly, “I hear you’re looking for your Vanguard.”

The muscles in the Red King’s forearms tightened ever so slightly as he clenched his fists inside his pockets, his golden eyes narrowed suspiciously, “Where is he?”

“Now that would be telling,” she chided, looking pleased. “But I can take you to him. Well, actually,” her eyes slid to where the third-in-command for the Blue Clan was glaring daggers at her, “it’s an invitation for one. What do you say, Saruhiko?”

“I’ll go,” the young man responded immediately, sheathing his sword. From across the courtyard, the two Kings shared an unreadable glance, before Munakata sighed.

“Very well,” the Blue King said. “Fushimi, your mission is to retrieve the Red Clan’s Vanguard and return as quickly as possible. Do you accept?”

“Yes,” Fushimi replied. Aphrodite’s brilliant smile turned sly as she moved to stand toe to toe with the blue-haired young man.

“Have fun,” Aphrodite simpered. The beautiful woman reached out and placed her perfectly-manicured hand over Fushimi’s heart. 

The instant she touched him, Fushimi Saruhiko vanished in a flash of light.

Alarmed and enraged, the Clansmen decided they were done with being jerked around by this so-called ‘Lady Aphrodite’ and charged forward, raising their fists and swords and summoning their Auras.

The moment they stepped forward, however, Aphrodite rolled her eyes and waved a hand; a wave of pure energy erupted from her, and all but the two Kings were knocked off their feet from the force of the attack.

“Calm down,” Aphrodite scoffed. “Saruhiko will be fine. Probably.”

Smirking down at the winded Clansmen, Aphrodite tossed her hair and said, “Well, it’s been fun, but I really must be going now. There’s a certain forbidden romance that requires my attention – the more drama the better, you know. That’s my motto.”

She winked at the Red and Blue Kings, and blew them all a kiss.

“Close your eyes,” she said, “If you don’t want to go blind.”

“Listen to her!” Munakata shouted, and everyone instinctively flinched back as the sun itself seemed to flicker before them, searing light burning through their eyelids.

It was over in an instant; when the assembled Clansmen opened their eyes all that remained in the center of the courtyard was a thoroughly confused Totsuka Tatara, and an innocuously bubbling fountain.

Fuse cleared his throat and turned to his King, “Respectfully, sir, what was that all about?”

Munakata sighed and closed his eyes.

“Sometimes it is best not to know, Fuse-kun,” he murmured tiredly. He opened his eyes again and adjusted his glasses, returning to his usual unruffled state, “Back to work, everyone. Fushimi-kun will return in due time.”

The Blue Clansmen appeared unconvinced, and traded unhappy looks, but nonetheless sheathed their swords and trudged back inside Scepter 4 headquarters.

Mikoto glanced at Kusanagi, who nodded and herded the Red Clan out the door. When only the two Kings remained on the cobblestone, Mikoto turned to look back at Munakata.

The Blue King said, “I don’t like the threat of the West’s war coming to Shizume City. Stay in touch, Suoh, for all our sakes.”

Mikoto gave a languid nod, “Same to you, Munakata.”

The Kings considered each other for a moment more, before going their separate ways.

Even as the two Clans reluctantly returned to their normal routines, they shared an unspoken vow: _Wherever you are, Yata-kun, Fushimi-kun, you’d better come back safe. Otherwise we’re coming for you. And_ nothing _will get in our way._

Yata Misaki may have been the Red Clan’s Vanguard, but he and Fushimi Saruhiko were integral parts of both their respective Clans, and their Clansmen wouldn’t rest until the two young men were safely returned to where they belonged.


	4. Befriending the Vanguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! No power outage today, so here's the next chapter, delivered on time! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warning for discussion of canonical character deaths.

**_< \--dust settles: first smile-->_ **

The Second Titan War ended with the Lord of Time shredded into dust and scattered to the winds of Tartarus. The gods of Olympus were victorious (their war fought and won by their children; at the cost of their children’s lives).

The forty-eight hours immediately following the war were a blur of sifting through dust and debris, searching for the bodies of demigods and dryads and satyrs and a thousand other mythical creatures. Friends, brothers, sisters, lovers; allies of Olympus who gave their lives for the gods. Not all were recovered. Some, like Michael Yew, were lost at sea. Others had been dismembered almost beyond recognition.

Before Morpheus released his curse and allowed the mortal citizens of New York to wake, the children of the gods laid their deceased kindred to rest in the middle of Times Square. Zeus threw his lightning and Hestia tenderly tended the flames as the dead were reduced to ash, released from their mortal coils and blessed to descend into the Underworld, where Hades waited to shepherd them along into the Afterlife. 

They say the smoke from the funeral pyre rose all the way up to Olympus, that it drifted through the hallowed, gold-trimmed halls like a ghost, haunting the breathtaking boulevards of the gods’ stronghold.

It was a clear message. Even in death, the children of Olympus had learned of the gods’ oath to Percy Jackson. Even in death, they refused to be forgotten. Legend said the smoke lingered until every last camper had been claimed by their godly parent.

They say Hestia and Hephaestus and Hermes built a monument to honor the fallen – a Celestial bronze sword etched with the names of each demigod lost was placed in a glittering shrine and anointed with Greek fire that would burn for all eternity, even after the gods faded from memory.

The mortal media struggled to make sense of the devastation the invisible, mystical war left in its wake. Stories about alien life and domestic terrorism and secret military-tests-gone-wrong were the most popular, prevailing theories.

Sometimes it _hurt_ to know their sacrifice would never be acknowledged, that half-bloods were doomed to walk in the shadows of mortal day-to-day life. But true heroes don’t need to be thanked, and the demigods knew the people who truly mattered – the survivors, the victors of the Second Titan War – would never forget. And that was enough.

The sons and daughters of Olympus were hard-wired for war, after all, and that made them especially resilient when it came to picking up the pieces of shattered lives.

Bloody and bruised but victorious, the surviving demigods returned to Camp Half-Blood. Three days after the death of Kronos, most children of the gods were once again safe behind the Golden Fleece’s barrier, their sanctuary restored.

The majority of the campers arrived in a caravan: flying chariots, stolen cars hotwired by the few demigods who had survived long enough to learn how to drive, shadow-travel for the injured. There were a few misfits that trailed after them into Camp – the Vanguard of Ares, to name one. 

The atmosphere of the campers’ triumphant return to Camp was a curious mixture of elation and despair. Some trudged up Thalia’s Hill and descended to cabins that would echo with the voices of those who had passed on. Others whooped and danced, the sight of _home_ reminding them of the reason they had fought and won the Second Titan War: to defend their families, their golden- _ichor_ ties.

Clarisse LaRue was one of the half-bloods who grappled with a mix of jubilation and gut-wrenching grief. The sight and scent of the strawberry fields were bittersweet, overshadowed by memories of Silena laughing and helping finish the chores, one of the few members of Aphrodite Cabin to never shirk their duties.

If Clarisse squinted, she could almost see Silena and Beckendorf strolling along the distant shore, hand-in-hand. Staring down into Camp Half-Blood from the cool shade of Thalia’s Tree, her eyes pricked with tears.

Viciously, Clarisse swiped at her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

A flicker of movement and auburn hair caught her attention; Clarisse turned to see Yata standing beside her.

The Vanguard of Ares examined his old home with gleaming hazel eyes.

“I never thought I’d come back here,” the soft admission made Clarisse flinch, but she forced herself to let her half-brother say his piece. “I wish I could have returned under better circumstances. But still . . .”

Yata trailed off, and Clarisse turned to him in concern. It took her a moment to distinguish his expression from under the shifting shadows of the pine needles as wind stirred the branches overhead, but after several long moments she realized he was . . . _smiling_ , ever-so-slightly.

It was a simple curve of lips, shallower than an undrawn bow, but it was the first moment Clarisse had seen happiness grace her brother’s face in a long time.

“It’s good to be back,” Yata said. Warmth bloomed in Clarisse’s chest, but she would be damned if she let anyone see the fondness melt the steel in her eyes.

“Let’s go,” she said, starting down toward the Big House. “There’s work to be done.”

**_< \--dust settles: second smile-->_ **

The days following the half-bloods’ triumphant return to Camp were highlighted by underwater kisses (which Clarisse teased Percy _mercilessly_ for) and the burning of shrouds.

The bonfire crackled with pitch-black flames as one by one cabinmates and friends of the deceased bid their final farewells. Clarisse helped the Aphrodite Cabin lay Silena to rest with a delicate pink shroud embroidered with silver thread and scented with roses. When the children of Aphrodite stepped away, Clarisse bowed her head and reached into her pocket.

Withdrawing several glimmering scales that she had carefully removed from the _drakon_ hide, Clarisse cast them into the fire and watched them smolder to ash on top of the shimmering dove that was emblazoned on Silena’s shroud.

Eyes burning, Clarisse stumbled away from the flames. Her _ichor_ -related family drew her back into the crowd with gentle words, the braver ones clasping her arm and giving it a consoling squeeze. Chris made his way to her side and twined their fingers together.

As the last of the shrouds disintegrated and the wind carried away the ashes, a hand landed on her shoulder.

Clarisse glanced over to see Yata staring somberly at the sky, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn’t identify. Allowing his touch to anchor her, Clarisse leaned into him and felt his arm slide to wrap around her, drawing her head down to rest on his shoulder.

“You’re strong, Clarisse,” Yata whispered. “You honor even traitors. Would that I could be as strong as you. Rest, now. You’ve earned it.”

Closing her eyes, Clarisse allowed herself to be supported by two of the men she loved most in the world.

_I wish you could have met him, Silena_ , Clarisse sent her parting thought with the ashes of her best friend’s shroud. _I wonder what you would have thought of the Vanguard of Ares_.

**V . O . A .**

After the shrouds were burned, the half-bloods dispersed to take inventory of the Camp supplies and begin planning the grueling process of rebuilding.

Sending Chris off with his Hermes siblings to hold a vigil for the fallen Luke Castellan, Clarisse assigned herself the mission of making sure Yata didn’t vanish without a word. 

The first step of her plan involved making sure he had a place to sleep, so she led him to Ares Cabin and directed him toward an empty bunk.

“This hasn’t changed much, either,” Yata dropped his small pack on the floor and plopped down on the bed. His smile was small and fond as he took a moment to stretch out, groaning as the tension in his spine unwound.

Clarisse snorted. She scooped up Yata’s bag and dropped it on his stomach, smirking when the breath _whooshed_ out of him and he floundered comically, eyes wide.

“Hurry up and unpack so we can get to work,” she commanded. Gasping, Yata rolled off the bed and glared at her.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, upending his pack on the mattress. Something twisted in Clarisse’s chest when she saw he only had a change of clothes, a few bits of ambrosia, the flame-pendant Ares had given him, and—

“Wait,” Clarisse reached into the pile and withdrew what appeared to be a silver wristwatch with a cracked clock-face. “What’s this?”

Yata paled and snatched the bit of technology away, turning it over and over in his hands. Grumbling to himself in Japanese, Yata slid the watch on his wrist and fiddled with a dial. When the cracked screen remained blank, he cursed and yanked the watch off, dropping it on the bed and glaring down at it in disgust.

“I can’t believe the damn thing broke,” Yata scowled, and Clarisse tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her: “Was it something important?”

“You could say that,” Yata sighed. “I should have known it would be too delicate, but I though since it could survive my flames, it would—” the Vanguard of Ares shook his head. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

Yata tossed his belongings into a footlocker under his bunk. When he was finished, he looked up at her expectantly.

“I’m all unpacked. Let’s go.”

Clarisse wasn’t convinced by his nonchalance. Frowning thoughtfully, she led the way out the door.

What was the significance of Yata’s watch? It was the most high-tech she had ever seen. How could the Vanguard of Ares afford it? 

Not for the first time, Clarisse wished she knew her half-brother better. She tired of secrets.

(Secrets had killed Silena. Clarisse would be damned if they got Yata too.)

**_< \--dust settles: third smile-->_ **

The first five days after returning from Manhattan and rebuilding Camp Half-Blood passed like this:

After the shrouds were burned, Chiron and Mr. D. formally welcomed the Vanguard of Ares back to Camp. Chiron did most of the talking; Mr. D. and Yata glared at each other the entire time.

Unspoken was the fact that not many survived turning their backs on the gods and leaving Camp Half-Blood to strike off on their own. Most campers idolized Yata for this, but it was clear Mr. D. despised him for it.

The senior campers were kept busy by alternatively building new Cabins and keeping track of a flood of new, doe-eyed _ichor_ -cousins stumbling over Thalia’s Hill. 

The Hermes Cabin quickly emptied of unclaimed campers, and there was a sense of bittersweet joy as gods and goddesses finally welcomed their offspring under their respective banners.

To Yata’s bemusement, the youngest campers began to trail after him like lost ducklings, drawn by curiosity and the fact that Yata was clearly a survivor. At age eighteen, Yata was one of the oldest members of Camp. He was a veteran and the fact he lived long enough to turn eighteen made him a legend.

As the days passed, he made himself useful by lending a hand with rebuilding the Cabins, keeping the newest arrivals busy by teaching them first-aid, and taking part in the guard rotation at the Camp borders. The Vanguard of Ares did his best to stay on the periphery of Camp activities, but Clarisse refused to let him skulk around. She made it her mission to drag him to and from various activities as much as possible. 

Chiron inadvertently cemented Yata’s presence in the Camp by seeking him out and publicly thanking him for his assistance during the Second Titan War (a speech during which the wiry son of Ares looked distinctly uncomfortable). The fact that Chiron – the Trainer of Heroes _himself_ – sought out Yata to _thank_ him elevated the demigod to hero-worship status in his younger cousins’ eyes.

They were fascinated by the slight teenager with the brusque personality, always clamoring after him to ask him questions about this and that ( _is it true you can fight with a sword_ and _a spear at the same time? can you really summon flames? how? does that make you a superhero? what was it like to visit Olympus?_ ). Yata was notoriously tight-lipped, but his admirers’ enthusiasm didn’t waver in the slightest. And that was _before_ a child of Aphrodite caught sight of Yata with his shirt off.

The Vanguard of Ares had been working with the Hephaestus Cabin to put the finishing touches on the Hades Cabin roof. The team of demigods had been hammering away for hours as the late afternoon sun beat down on them; sweat stung their eyes until Yata finally growled and pulled off his tank top, wrapping it around his head like a turban to try and find some relief from the relentless sun.

Tying a knot in the fabric at the base of his skull, Yata went back to work. Several children of Hephaestus followed his lead, shedding their own clothes to find some respite from the heat.

For a few minutes, there was an air of contentment on the Hades Cabin roof, but the peace was shattered by a shriek from down below. Fumbling with their tools and doing their best to calm their racing hearts, the roofing team craned their necks to peek over the edge and see what all the fuss was about.

To their surprise, Drew Tanaka and a gaggle of other Aphrodite children were gaping up at them.

“Oh my gods!” Drew shrieked again. “Yata, you have a _tattoo_?”

As one, the Hephaestus Cabin members turned their attention to Yata, whose face was crimson. The Vanguard of Ares’ toned chest glistened with sweat, and sure enough, the children of Hephaestus could see a tattoo stenciled over his heart. (Although how Drew had been able to see it from so far away was not a question any of them wished to contemplate for very long.)

The tattoo was about the size of a fist. Drawn in tasteful red-black ink and shaped like a flame, the design stood out starkly on Yata’s fair skin.

“Wait,” a son of Hephaestus squinted and leaned closer, trying to make out the initials tattooed beneath the flame, “What does H.M.R. mean?”

“Yeah, Yata,” Drew leered up at him. “What _do_ those initials mean? Who’s the lucky girl that stole your heart?”

By this time, a sizable crowd had gathered below, the other Campers always eager to learn something new about the mysterious Vanguard of Ares. When Yata flushed this time, it was with anger.

“It’s none of your business,” he snapped. And regardless of how hard Drew needled him, that was all he would say on the subject.

Yata refused to come down from the roof until dusk had fallen and most Campers had given up their quest for gossip in favor of dinner. Once all murmurs of conversation had faded from below, Yata slipped to the side of the roof and dropped to the ground.

Pulling the makeshift turban off his head, Yata shook out his tank top. He was just about to grudgingly head toward the Dining Pavilion, certain Clarisse would be on the warpath if he didn’t show his face soon, when something shifted in the shadows in his peripheral vision.

Throwing out an arm in a defensive maneuver, Yata whirled around. The sparks igniting at his fingertips revealed the red-bathed features of a pale boy with dark hair and eyes. Belatedly recognizing the kid as the tenant of the cabin Yata had just spent the afternoon affixing a roof to, the Vanguard of Ares dropped his arm.

“Sorry,” Nico di Angelo had the grace to look vaguely guilty, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Drew looked like she wanted to corner me at dinner, so I shadow-traveled here and—”

The son of Hades glanced down and interrupted himself, “And I guess she wasn’t lying for once. You really _do_ have a tattoo.”

“Why is it such a big deal?” Yata huffed, his ire rising anew from smoldering embers.

Nico shrugged, “You’re a hero among heroes that showed up out of the blue. People are curious.”

“There are better things to be curious about,” Yata muttered, pulling his tank top over his head.

“What does it mean?” Nico asked quietly. “Your tattoo?”

Yata stopped and considered the son of Hades, before grumbling: “The flame is a symbol of my family.”

“You have relatives outside of Camp?” Nico asked.

Yata smiled, hazel eyes gleaming gold as the last rays of the sun fell beneath the horizon, “No. HOMRA and I don’t share blood, but our bond is strong because we protect each other.”

Nico looked away, “You remind me of my sister.”

“Your sister?” Yata raised his eyebrows.

“Bianca,” Nico whispered, dark eyes fixed on the shimmer of early stars winking into life overhead.

Yata was familiar enough with the sound of old grief to know not to push for more details. The Vanguard of Ares remembered the army of undead the son of Hades had raised to help the demigods win the Battle for Olympus, could recall the slight boy standing alone at the head of a hoard of zombies, his _ichor_ -cousins giving him a wide berth.

“You miss her,” Yata winced as soon as the words slipped out, but Nico didn’t seem fazed.

“I do,” the son of Hades said, dark eyes suddenly boring into Yata, “and you miss your family.”

Startled by the intensity of Nico’s gaze, Yata glanced down to find himself rubbing absently at the tattoo etched over his heart. Grumbling, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, his face flushing. 

Nico broke the silence, “I know it’s been said before, but thank you for your help during the War.”

“You’re the one they should be thanking,” Yata retorted. “Without your help, we would have been overwhelmed. Your sister would have been proud.”

The next breath Nico took shuddered in his chest. He kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the sky. “Bianca would have liked you. You figured out how to survive on your own. You didn’t let yourself get pushed around by anyone. She would have respected that. _I_ respect that.”

Yata sighed, “Look, kid, it really isn’t my place to say anything, since I’ve been out of the loop for five-odd years, but would you like some advice?”

He took the ensuing silence as an affirmative.

“Having a foot in two worlds is hard,” Yata said. “It’s a lot of struggle, and not many people understand why you won’t just choose one or the other. But if you keep walking, eventually you’ll meet people who don’t care about it either way, and those people will become your _nakama_ ,” at Nico’s quizzical expression, Yata explained: “To have _nakama_ is to have a bond with someone that is deeper than friendship, something almost familial even if you aren’t related by blood.”

Yata reached out and clapped a hand to Nico’s shoulder, “Sometimes you have to walk a different path than your friends and family. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. If anything,” Yata waited until Nico met his gaze, then the Vanguard of Ares smiled, “bear it with pride.”

In the distance, an irate Clarisse could be heard calling for her _ichor_ -brother. Yata winced, “Just keep in mind that they would probably appreciate a visit from time to time. 

“Look,” Yata glanced around before snatching up a pen the construction crew had been using earlier to mark up wood. Holding out a hand, Ares’ son waited expectantly until Nico hesitantly reached out to meet him halfway. Grabbing Nico’s hand in a gentle grip, Yata flipped it over so the son of Hades’ palm was facing up. Uncapping the pen, Yata started scribbling, “This is my number. Call me if you ever want to talk or if you need help. You could also IM me, but there’s a better chance that you’ll be able to reach me this way.”

Once Yata released him, Nico looked down at his palm in shocked silence.

Clarisse called out again, her voice much closer than before. Running a hand through his hair, Yata heaved a sigh.

“You’re a good guy, Nico. A hero. Don’t ever forget that, no matter what anyone says.”

With that, Yata turned away and started meandering in the direction his _ichor_ -sister’s voice was echoing from.

“Yata,” Nico called after him, and the Vanguard turned to meet the grateful gaze of Hades’ son, “Thank you.”

“You’re family,” the Vanguard of Ares said firmly, as though that was enough to explain everything. Then he vanished into the dim dusk light, heading in the direction of the Dining Pavilion. The son of Hades stood in the shadow of his Cabin for some time, tracing the constellation of a Huntress who gave her life for people not related to her by blood.

“ _Nakama_ . . .” Nico di Angelo murmured, contemplating the stars until a chill breeze drove him inside.

**_< \--dust settles: fourth smile-->_ **

The demigods of Camp Half-Blood had their hard-fought peace shaken the next day when Rachel Elizabeth Dare billowed green smoke and a serpent’s hiss.

_“Seven half-bloods shall answer the call_

_To storm or fire the world must fall_

_An oath to keep with a final breath_

_And foes bear arms to the Doors of Death”_

The veterans of the Second Titan War listened with pursed lips and old eyes (and some glanced at the Vanguard of Ares, muttering about _fire_ ). But the newer demigods kept the atmosphere light, and the Camp continued to settle.

A week had passed since Kronos’ defeat, and the dawn of the seventh day found Yata standing in the Arena, having been voluntold to hold a training session for some of the newest heroes.

“Alright,” Yata paced in front of his gathered students, “First rule: call me Yata, or else. Second rule: do as I say. Third rule: try your best to learn these moves and practice them. You never know when they might save your life. Fourth rule: don’t be afraid to ask questions. No one understands this on the first try.”

Picking up a staff from an arsenal of weapons neatly arranged to his left, Yata, cognizant of the younger (shorter) demigods craning their necks in the back of the crowd, held it up so everyone could see, “I know some of you want to jump right in and start using swords and spears because they look cool, but today you’re learning how to be resourceful. The chances of you being out in the mortal world with a sword on hand isn’t very high, so you have to learn to defend yourself using whatever means necessary.”

Yata waited until the thoughtful murmurs of his audience had died down before gesturing to the pile of weapons, “Pick up a staff and form two lines facing each other. Let’s begin.”

Watching surreptitiously from the shadows of the Arena, Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase sat with their fingers intertwined.

“He’s not bad,” the daughter of Athena said, thoughtful gray eyes fixed on Yata’s slight form as he led his students through _katas_ , “His leg looks like it’s mostly healed, and he gets along well with the younger half-bloods.”

“Yeah,” Percy agreed. “They really seem to like him. To be honest, I never thought a child of Ares would be such a good babysitter.”

“Maybe,” Annabeth mused, “wherever he’s been, he’s had to coexist with kids. Yata has a temper, to be sure, but he curbs it well around the younger half-bloods.”

“Where do you think he’s been, Annabeth?” Percy asked. In the back of his mind stirred the prickling question: _how_ and _why_ did Yata sustain a gunshot wound?

“If I had to guess,” Annabeth looked uncomfortable, “I’d say he went back to his roots,” her eyes fell to her free hand, to her knuckles that had gone white in a suddenly-clenched fist. “That’s what I would do in his place.” 

Percy took in the darkness shadowing his girlfriend’s beautiful gray eyes, remembering a stepmother who didn’t care and a father Annabeth loved despite everything. Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, Percy brushed a kiss across her fingers and smiled cheekily when Annabeth turned to glare playfully at him.

“So, what would that mean for Yata?” Percy asked. “He’s not from the United States, right?”

“To be honest, I don’t know where he was born. But I do know his mother was Japanese, and that Japanese is his first language.”

“Woah, he’s trilingual?”

“At least. From what I’ve seen he has mastery over Japanese, English, and Greek.”

“Wow,” Percy turned back to watch Yata’s class, smiling. “That’s amazing. So, you think when he left Camp he went to Japan.”

“Yes,” Annabeth considered her hazel-eyed _ichor_ -cousin. “His accent is thicker than it used to be, which implies he hasn’t been speaking English for some time. And when you consider the time it took between Clarisse IM-ing him and his arrival in New York, give or take a few hours it aligns for the travel time between Japan and the east coast of the United States.”

Annabeth’s silence was uneasy before she continued: “I remember when he was here more than five years ago, Percy. He was odd, even among half-bloods. Ares claimed him the moment he stumbled into Camp. Some people despised him for that right away, out of jealousy. It didn’t help that Yata was young, and angry, that his first language wasn’t English. 

“The fact an Eastern woman managed to entrance a Western-bound god itself is unusual, and you can see for yourself that Yata isn’t exactly what you would imagine a child of Ares to be,” Annabeth said, troubled. Percy winced guiltily at her words, but Athena’s daughter continued: “Half-bloods shunned him, Percy. They would tease him for his accent, try to intimidate him with their height or their muscle. At first, not even his siblings accepted him.

“But Yata was scrappy. He spat bullies in the eye, raged and fought until they were forced to respect him,” Annabeth sighed. “After the first six months, things improved, but the bottom line was that not even the one place on earth that should have been a sanctuary for him offered him much kindness. Because of that . . . I can’t help but wonder why he came back.”

“Nice dissertation, Princess,” a hulking shadow fell over the pair, and the two half-bloods looked up to find Clarisse watching them with narrowed eyes. “You wanna know why Yata came back?”

Without waiting for a response, Ares’ daughter claimed a place beside them, brown eyes watching intently as Yata showed a young boy how to sweep his opponent’s feet out from under them, “I’ll tell you. He came back because I asked him to, because even _ichor_ is family. Yata came back because above all else, he’s loyal.”

“We didn’t mean any offense, Clarisse,” Annabeth said. The brown-haired girl merely snorted, concentrating her glare on the gathering of students.

After a few moments of almost-uncomfortable silence, Clarisse deflated slightly.

“He’s restless,” Clarisse said, and neither Percy nor Annabeth needed to ask who she was referring to. The daughter of Ares’ shoulders slumped several millimeters, enough for the other half-bloods to notice her distress. Percy and Annabeth traded concerned glances as Clarisse murmured, “He hasn’t changed.”

The words settled over the trio like a waft of Oracle-smoke, choking sound into silence until Clarisse stood and marched to the center of the Arena.

“Hey, Yata!” she hollered. “Let’s show these newbies how it’s done.”

Yata turned at the sound of his name, and his eyes lit up when he processed Clarisse’s challenge.

“You’re on,” he said, teeth flashing in a smile that was a little too bloodthirsty for comfort. Within minutes, Percy and Annabeth found themselves the temporary caretakers of twenty young demigods, surrounded by bright eyes and excited whispering.

“Before we begin,” Clarisse said, brandishing a spear as Yata drew out and unleashed his flame-shaped pendant, “I’d like to propose a wager. If I win, you tell me where you’ve been these past five years. Something more specific than ‘Japan.’ If you win, I’ll take your next three shifts on babysitting duty.”

Yata’s smile morphed into a challenging smirk, “Bring it on, Clarisse. Prepare to lose.”

Still smiling, they lunged forward at the same instant.

Clarrise struck the first blow, using brute force to knock Yata’s spear aside and bruise his shoulder. Yata acted as though he hadn’t felt a thing, spinning and swinging low to sweep Clarisse’s feet out from under her, demonstrating a move his students had been trying to master.

Murmurs of adoration rumbled from the crowd. Annabeth and Percy watched with veteran eyes as the two _ichor_ -siblings danced around each other. 

For all that they shared a godly parent, Yata and Clarisse’s fighting styles had few similarities. Both were capable of using brute strength to push their opponent around, but Clarisse favored that tactic much more heavily than her shorter half-brother.

Yata was faster than Clarisse, and nimbler. Darting around to keep out of her reach, Yata jabbed at her, tore her sleeve before she could dodge.

The back-and-forth continued for several minutes, until both opponents were sweating and smiling, the air around them flickering red.

Yata had a bruise swelling on his face thanks to a lucky blow from his _ichor_ -sister. Clarisse stood tall and ready, knees bent. They grinned, their war-blood edging them into berserker territory.

After a few seconds of rest, they fell back to fighting with startling ferocity. The watching crowd had gone silent, mesmerized by the complex dance that was a brutal skirmish between two of Ares’ children.

The _ichor_ -siblings crossed spears and strained against each other, Clarisse cornering Yata closer and closer to the wall of the Arena. Yata snarled and surged forward. The sudden influx of power knocked the daughter of Ares off balance.

She scrambled to recover, but Yata used his spear as a pole, planting it in the dirt and using it to swing around, push off the wall, and slam his feet into Clarisse’s stomach.

Clarisse’s eyes bulged as the wind was forced from her lungs. Gasping, she toppled over onto her back. Yata was on her in an instant, twisting her wrist until she was forced to either drop her spear or break a bone. Clarisse’s weapon rolled away and Yata crouched over her, pressing the blade of his own spear to her jugular.

“Well fought, Clarisse,” Yata said. “Do you yield?”

“I yield,” Clarisse said grudgingly. She smiled up at Yata, all teeth: “Just you wait, though. I’ll get you next time.”

Yata laughed and pulled her to her feet. He returned her spear and helped her limp over to the cheering crowd of new demigods. Clarisse’s ankle had twisted when she fell, and to her dismay Yata deposited her in the middle of the group of preteens she was now in charge of.

The son of Ares watched fondly as the younger half-bloods clambered over themselves to talk with Clarisse, overwhelming her with questions about her spear and fighting style.

“Not bad.”

Yata turned to see the son of Poseidon smiling at him, ballpoint pen in hand. “You mind if we go a round? Same wager.”

Yata’s hazel eyes considered Percy, and for a moment the son of Ares’ face shuttered into opaqueness. 

“I hate swords,” Yata said with startling vehemence. Nevertheless, a challenging smirk curled on his lips. “Fine.” 

And then it was the son of war and the son of the sea facing each other in the shadow of the Arena. Percy hefted Riptide and considered the slender wood and Celestial bronze weapon that Yata wielded. Yata would have more reach, but Percy more maneuverability. Chances were Yata’s strange crimson aura would offer him some protection from physical blows, but it was likely Percy’s River Stygian-bathed skin would be more effective defensively (provided Yata’s instincts didn’t stumble across Percy’s weak spot).

Percy hadn’t fought seriously since the Second Titan War. He couldn’t resist returning Yata’s look of excitement, settling in for their spar. Absently, Percy realized this was the most _alive_ he had seen Yata since the Battle for Olympus.

Yata moved first, kicking dust in Percy’s face and using the cover of the cloud to slip behind him. Percy’s back tingled and he somersaulted forward to avoid Yata’s spear. Rolling to his knees, he slashed backwards and caught the spear-tip on the flat of his blade.

Surging to his feet, Percy flung Yata back and watched as Ares’ son crouched with the staff of his spear pressed along his arm, blade poised to strike. (It might have been Percy’s imagination, but for an instant he could have sworn the Vanguard of Ares’ eyes burned blood-red instead of hazel.)

Percy sprinted forward. The two demigods exchanged blows, war-wired brains working faster than adrenaline to predict their opponent’s moves and react accordingly.

Taking a gamble, Percy grabbed the staff of Yata’s spear and wrenched it forward. Yata refused to relinquish it until Percy followed up with a sword-swipe to the gut. Yata threw himself backward with more grace than Percy thought was fair, and the son of Poseidon finally succeeded in capturing the son of Ares’ only means of attack.

For an instant, as Yata put distance between them, Percy considered trying to use Riptide and Yata’s spear (did it have a name? Please let it be more original than _Maimer_ ) simultaneously.

The spear made the decision for him, shrinking down to its original pendant form in an instant. Shrugging, Percy tossed the pendant to Clarisse for safe-keeping and followed Yata across the Arena.

As he swung Riptide down, he had an instant to notice that the Vanguard of Ares looked awfully content for not having a weapon. Percy dismissed the unease and prepared to pull back so he didn’t accidentally slice Yata’s head open, but then crimson heat exploded in front of his face.

Percy stared down at Yata in shock. The Vanguard of Ares smirked, an echo of Clarisse’s smugness, and Percy realized Riptide’s blade had been caught between Yata’s palms, which had also coincidentally _caught fire_.

“What the—?!” Percy squawked. Yata bared his teeth, victorious. The next thing Percy knew, Yata’s crimson aura had enveloped him like the embrace of an old friend and Percy was being forced to dodge flaming fists.

Yata beat him back across the Arena and Percy desperately tried to retaliate. He swore he could feel his eyebrows singe off when Yata’s arm swung within inches of his face.

_Well_ , Percy thought, the exhilaration of a good spar buoying something in his chest. _If that’s how it’s gonna be._

He raised Riptide and felt the _tugging_ sensation inside him reaching for water molecules—

A roaring sound accompanied by a shadow falling over Yata made the Vanguard of Ares to look up. He registered an orb of water floating overhead, gleaming in the cloudless sky.

Yata had just enough time to flash a glare at Percy, who grinned, before Riptide fell and the weight of the water forced Yata to the ground.

Spluttering indignantly, Yata rolled onto his side and coughed. Concerned, Percy approached the older demigod, wondering if he had gone too far.

There was a gust of heat, and then Percy was the one flailing, trying desperately to put out his shirt, which had mysteriously caught fire.

“Truce?” he called to Yata, grudgingly impressed.

The Vanguard of Ares kept him in suspense for a moment before relenting, “Truce.”

Yata allowed Percy to help him to his feet, and then the two made their way back to the gathered demigods. The crowd immediately gushed at them, and Percy smiled before a young demigod’s concerned voice cut through the cacophony.

“Mr. Yata, sir? Are you alright?”

Yata looked bemused by the honorific, and Percy realized belatedly that the shorter man was limping, favoring the leg with the gunshot wound.

Clarisse smacked Yata on the back of the head, “I thought you said it was healed!”

“It’s fine!” Yata retorted, and Percy interjected hurriedly: “Thanks for the spar, Yata. You’re an amazing fighter. I’ll take on the babysitting duties.”

Keen hazel eyes turned to consider him before Yata said, “We called truce, _baka_. It ended in a draw. You can help Clarisse look after the brats.”

“What about your end of the bargain?” Clarisse insisted.

Yata’s lips pursed for an instant before he closed his eyes, “Fine. After I left Camp, I bounced around a lot. I’ve been living in Shizume City for the past few years.”

The revelation meant nothing to Percy, but Annabeth’s eyebrows drew together. “Isn’t that the place where a nuclear power plant exploded a few years ago?”

Yata’s eyes flickered away, “Yeah, I guess.”

“You _guess_?” Clarisse and Annabeth echoed incredulously. Yata looked mutinous, and Percy hurried to usher everyone out of the Arena before another argument could break out.

After he finished divvying up babysitting duty shifts with Clarisse, he waved goodbye to the new half-bloods and headed to the beach with Annabeth.

“He was able to fend me off with his bare hands,” Percy whistled, mind still going over his spar with Yata.

Annabeth nodded, “That aura of his is something, alright. I wonder where he draws his power. I doubt it’s from Ares.”

“If it’s not from Ares,” Percy frowned, thinking of Clarisse’s blessing from her father, “then where in Hades is it from?”

“I don’t know,” Annabeth’s gray eyes flickered. Percy could practically hear the wheels turning in her head, “But I intend to find out.”

Percy said nothing, simply wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in for a kiss.

**_< \--dust settles: fifth smile-->_ **

Yata relaxed somewhat after the Arena fights. He was more rowdy and hot-headed, loud and vibrant and _there_ in a way that was almost enough for fellow campers to ignore his restless gazes to the East and the fact satyrs avoided him like he was the harbinger of a Nature-ending apocalypse.

Percy tried to broach the subject with Grover, once. His best friend bleated something between a whisper and a whimper.

“He reeks of _violence_ ,” Grover looked like Cerberus was nipping at his cloven hoof-heels. “And he smells like fire. He’s a nice guy, Percy, but I just can’t stand to be around that for too long.”

At that point, it was almost two weeks post-War’s end, and the Camp was recovering slowly but surely. New frames had been raised for new Cabins, and a dragon had been hired to guard the Golden Fleece. The great lizard curled contentedly around Thalia’s Tree. Within hours it was being worshipped and spoiled by the younger demigods.

For a few days, Percy allowed himself to believe that maybe peace was possible. Maybe he could relax and head back to Manhattan, have dinner with his mother and step-dad. Introduce them to Annabeth again, this time as his girlfriend (a ridiculous giddy sensation still swept over him whenever it hit him that Annabeth – beautiful, devastatingly-brilliant Annabeth – was his _girlfriend_ ).

But demigods’ luck was more mercurial than the wind.

Day Thirteen after the Battle for Olympus found all the half-bloods gathered in the Dining Pavilion for the evening meal. Cheerful conversation buzzed and utensils clattered against plates.

The fire burned merrily in the middle of the Pavilion. Ares Cabin was the last to sacrifice that day, and they had just sat down when the flames exploded outward.

Cries of alarm rang out as demigods scrambled away from the epicenter, but for all its ferocity, the fire did not actually harm them.

When the flames receded, a man in a biker outfit and a woman in a skin-tight dress stood in the center of the Pavilion.

“Dad?” Clarisse said in disbelief, echoed by Drew Tanaka’s equally confused, “Mom? What are you doing here?”

Aphrodite smiled, “Hello, dears. Sorry to interrupt dinner. Ares wanted to make an announcement.”

Leather creaked as the god of war swung his great head to the table where his children were gathered. “Clarisse and Yata. Front and center.”

Exchanging a glance, the siblings got up and rounded the table. They stood at attention before their father, faces blank.

Ares’ lips curled in a gruff semblance of a smile, “It’s good to see you again, son. From what I hear, you’ve done quite well for yourself.”

The war god didn’t seem to notice the stiffness his words injected into Yata’s shoulders, continuing in his booming, drill sergeant voice, “No blood, no bone, no ash, isn’t that right, kid? Your leader sounds like a guy after my own heart.”

Yata did not respond, his face a shade paler than normal. Aphrodite filled the ensuing silence by giving the room in general a saucy wink, “I see your noble leader and resident blonde genius have finally taken the next step to tying the knot.”

Percy and Annabeth flushed to the roots of their hair.

“Speaking of love that needs a little, shall we say, _special_ attention to flourish,” Aphrodite turned the full force of her gleeful gaze on Yata, “I wanted to stop by and let you know I’m bringing you a gift, son of Ares. You deserve _something_ for all your sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree?”

Yata resembled a deer in the headlights, spots of color flushing high in his cheeks. Whether out of mercy or not, Ares came to his rescue, “Don’t tease him, babe. He’ll find out soon enough. Now,” Ares cracked his knuckles, “enough of the sappy stuff. I came to honor the both of you.

“Clarisse LaRue, you fought well in the Battle for Olympus. You did me proud. For that I officially bestow upon you the title of Drakonslayer.”

The Ares table whooped, and Clarisse tilted her chin up as Ares clapped a hand on her shoulder. Then he turned to his son, “And you, Yata. You’ve carried my name well since your mother died. You have her fire in you. I hope you realize that.”

Yata’s eyes glistened suspiciously bright, and Ares settled his hands on his son’s shoulders as he continued: “You’ve always done what you want. People used to say it would get you killed, and it still might, but that conviction is something I admire. You have earned this, _musuko_.

“Stand proud and protect what you love, Vanguard of Ares.”

Bolstered by the emotion on Yata’s face, the entire Pavilion erupted into cheers. Campers surged forward to congratulate the shell-shocked _ichor_ -siblings. Ares gave both of his children a gruff hug before he and Aphrodite exited the Pavilion and vanished in a flash of light.

**V . O . A .**

Clarisse found Yata on the beach after Campfire that night. He was barefoot, his toes hidden in the sand, leaning back on his hands. She sat with him and for a moment the two enjoyed the silence of a peaceful night.

Ares’ daughter absently played with the coarse sand, wondering whether or not she dared attempt conversation. She knew that Yata was a private person, but he was her _brother_ and she worried about him. Not to mention, Clarisse didn’t like the love goddess’s idea of ‘fun.’ That particular brand of meddling had gotten her best friend killed.

“Yata,” Clarisse said, too loud in the quiet of the night, “what did Aphrodite mean when she said she was bringing you a gift?”

Yata tensed, and Clarisse quickly said, “If you don’t want to answer that, can you at least tell me why you go out of your way to avoid the Aphrodite Cabin?

“They’re not all bad,” she admitted grudgingly, thinking again of Silena. Clarisse hoped Silena and Beckendorf had found each other in the Fields of Asphodel, that they finally had a chance to be happy.

Yata grimaced, “I’ve never been good with girls.”

_Got that right_ , Clarisse snorted; remembering several memorable occasions when they were younger, how flustered Yata would get when talking to a pretty girl.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, but there was no malice in it. “I guess the long and short of it is I don’t like to be taunted about my love life. Aphrodite Cabin . . . they always act like they _know_ something I don’t. It pisses me off. And Aphrodite’s so-called ‘gift,’ well . . . I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out what she means.”

The truth stung Clarisse. “You’re leaving.”

“Tomorrow,” Yata nodded. 

Clarisse’s mouth turned down as she recalled old pain and her question came out more bitter than intended, “Why don’t you stay?”

Yata rubbed absently at the tattoo over his heart, “I told you before, Clarisse. I have a duty.”

Hurt burned in Clarisse’s chest like a Celestial bronze blade stabbed through her ribs. Yata, too perceptive at the worst of times, noticed and hastened to reassure her, “I promise I’ll always be an IM away. You can get ahold of me at any time.”

Clarisse stubbornly refused to drop the subject, “You were gone for _five years_ , Yata, and you won’t tell us _anything_. I know you don’t like being at Camp and I know Dad was a jerk to you before you left, but you still helped us when we needed it. How are we supposed to know if _you_ need help? What if you die and I never know?”

Tears pricked her eyes and Clarisse swiped at them angrily.

When Yata responded, he sounded pained, “I promise I won’t die. The place I need to get back to, the people there . . . well, they’re like family to me, and they’ll always have my back.”

He wrapped an arm around his _ichor_ -sister’s shoulders, and despite the fact Clarisse was taller, she rested her head on his shoulder. Yata sighed, “It’s complicated, Clarisse. The less that you and the rest of Camp knows, the safer you’ll be.”

“You always have to try and protect us from everything,” Clarisse murmured, her tears of frustration drying up.

She could feel the muscles in his cheek shifting as he smiled, “I’d be a sorry excuse for a Vanguard if I didn’t. It’ll be okay, _imouto_.”

Clarisse returned his smile reluctantly, the inevitable loss of her _ichor_ -brother as sharp as Silena’s. “Just don’t sneak out before dawn or something. Let me say goodbye this time.”

“Of course,” Yata murmured. The two leaned against each other for a few more minutes before Clarisse pulled away and got to her feet.

“Good night, Yata.”

“Good night, Clarisse. Sleep well.”

She left him staring out East, fiddling with his flame pendant. As she walked away, the screeches of the cleaning harpies echoing over the sand dunes, it occurred to her that something had changed.

Before Yata left Camp all those years ago, his eyes used to search the horizon. Now, the Vanguard of Ares’ gaze was fixed unerringly in one place.

_Whoever his ‘second family’ is_ , Clarisse thought, _they must be pretty amazing to hold his loyalty like that._

**_< \--dust settles: sixth smile-->_ **

The next day was the two-week mark since Kronos’ defeat. 

Just after breakfast in the Dining Pavilion, the Camp trudged up Thalia’s Hill to see Yata off.

Campers crowded around the Vanguard to wish him well. The air buzzed with a strange mixture of bittersweet sincerity. Yata gruffly said goodbye to his adoring fans (the younger demigods), and shook hands with Percy, Nico, and Annabeth.

He told Chris to treat his _ichor_ -sister properly, adding, “If she doesn’t kick your ass for messing with her, I sure as Hades will.”

Chris nodded good-naturedly and stepped away to give Clarisse a moment with her brother. The daughter of Ares didn’t hesitate to draw Yata into a bone-crushing hug. He returned the embrace and nodded when she made him promise to at least check in every month.

Finally, the Vanguard of Ares shouldered his pack and turned to where Chiron was watching quietly. The great centaur stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Yata mirrored him and raised a challenging eyebrow, “Not gonna try and stop me?”

Chiron’s smile was sincere, “No. I’ve learned that trying to force you to do anything you don’t want to do is futile. Besides, you can take care of yourself. Just remember, Yata,” he laid a hand on the Vanguard’s shoulder, “we will always be here if you need us. Safe travels, Vanguard of Ares.”

The gathered half-bloods echoed his words. Yata nodded and prepared to pass beneath the shadow of Thalia’s Tree.

He stepped forward, and a blinding flash of light exploded on the other side of Thalia’s Tree.

When the light faded an instant later, it left behind a young man dressed in a blue uniform with a sword strapped to his hip.

There was a moment of shocked silence as the lone young man and the crowd of half-bloods considered each other. 

The instant the demigods registered the sword strapped to the stranger’s side, they reached for weapons most had forgotten back at the Cabins. Within moments, the weaponless had bowed to the prepared, and shoved the less-experienced behind them, forming a wall of bristling blades between the stranger and their beloved Camp. Adrenaline raced through war-wired limbs. The only thing that separated the children of the gods from the sword-totting young man was the invisible boundary that kept monsters and mortals from invading their sanctuary.

However, since the stranger had appeared in a flash of light, the half-bloods weren’t sure what he was – god? mortal? monster?

. . . Something worse? 

Paranoia was a lesson every demigod had become intimately acquainted with, and the Second Titan War had been a cruel mentor.

The look of shock faded from the blue-haired young man’s face as he watched the gathering turn against him. Mouth set in a grim line, the stranger’s glasses glinted as his cold sapphire eyes narrowed. Wordlessly, he reached for the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip.

“Wait!”

The shout came from Yata, and as one the demigods froze, startled by the bite of command in his voice.

Trusting Annabeth to warn him if the stranger made a move, Percy glanced back at the Vanguard of Ares.

Standing amidst the crush of well-wishing _ichor_ -cousins, brothers, sisters; Percy could just barely catch a glimpse of Ares’ honored son.

Yata’s face was bloodless, his mouth slack, his hazel eyes wide and fixed unerringly on the young man standing just beyond the Camp boundaries. For several endless moments, the tense silence stretched on, Camp Half-Blood deferring to Yata’s command (because Yata was an elder, a mentor, a friend, a hero; he had proven himself worthy of their trust and they would follow him anywhere).

Then Yata exhaled, uttering something that could have been a word, could have been a growl, could have been a sigh. It sounded like:

“ _Saru_ . . .”

A spark returned to the Vanguard of Ares’ eyes, and his cheeks flushed with anger as his expression turned thunderous.

“ _Damn_ you, Aphrodite,” he snarled under his breath. The demigods who heard him recoiled in bewilderment. Yata lifted his chin and used the opening to begin pushing his way through the crowd.

“Let me through!” he snapped, and his golden- _ichor_ relatives rushed to obey, clearing a path for him and giving him a wide berth.

Crimson flames licked at the Vanguard of Ares’ heels. Sparks trailed from his fingertips as he made his way to the front of the crowd like a lion emerging from the savanna, the demigods bending aside like grass stalks in the breeze.

The stranger was on guard throughout the entire exchange. He’d been intently examining Chiron in all his centaur glory, but the moment Yata spoke his gaze had snapped back to the mass of half-bloods milling around before him like a fox scenting blood.

Palm hovering over the hilt of his sword, the blue-haired young man remained absolutely still until Yata finally managed to make his way to the front.

The instant the Vanguard of Ares stepped into view, the stranger’s blue eyes went wide and the hand edging toward his sword dropped back to his side as though he were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Misaki?” he whispered, voice soft with disbelief; with awe, and the children of the gods winced despite themselves, bracing for the indignant shouts that would no doubt imminently erupt from Yata, furious that someone dared to call him by his first name.

But the Vanguard of Ares, his hands curled loosely at his side, chin raised, simply said:

“Saru.”

As though a switch had been flipped, ‘Saru’s’ blue eyes narrowed and the almost soft (almost _tender_ ) expression on his face curdled like sour milk. Mouth pressed into a thin line, the blue-haired stranger drew himself up until he was towering over Yata, glaring down at the vertically-challenged demigod with such intensity the rest of the half-bloods shifted uneasily.

The stranger hissed something in a voice cold as ice and sharp as a Celestial-bronze blade, but the words blurred in a way most of the demigods couldn’t understand, syllables simultaneously enunciated and slurred together.

Then Yata replied in the same unfamiliar language, shoulders stiff and hands curling into fists.

Comprehension dawned on Annabeth, and she whipped around, eyes scanning the crowd for—

“Drew!” Annabeth stage-whispered. The love goddess’ child raised an eyebrow, and Annabeth said:

“They’re speaking Japanese, right? Can you translate for us?”

Wickedness gleamed in Drew Tanaka’s dark eyes, and her perfect cupid’s-bow mouth curved into a smirk.

“But of course,” she simpered. “The hot, blue-haired guy just said, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ and Yata replied ‘What’s it to you, Saru?’ Although ‘saru’ means monkey, so maybe Yata is insulting—”

“Drew!” Every demigod in the vicinity exclaimed. “Focus!”

“Fine,” Drew huffed and pouted for a moment. “It’s not that interesting, though. They’re arguing about Yata disappearing without a word, and how it’s upset the balance—

“Oooh,” Drew interrupted herself, eyes fixed on Ares’ most mysterious son, wound so tight the tendons stood out in his forearms. “That wasn’t very nice, Yata. Even you have to admit that Saru has a very fine—”

“Ahem,” Chiron cleared his throat, and Yata’s mouth snapped shut, ceasing his argument with the now-smirking stranger.

“Why don’t you introduce us to your friend, Yata?” Chiron suggested.

“Friend?!” Yata spluttered, his eyes flashing dangerously. “No way is this piece of—”

“Misaki,” the stranger interrupted, the smirk gone from his face. He said something else, low and serious. Drew gasped, and the demigods glanced at her in alarm.

Whatever the stranger said, it was enough to silence Yata. The two locked gazes, a muscle twitching in the Vanguard of Ares’ clenched jaw.

The blue-haired, sharp-eyed stranger strode forward until he had to be inches from the barrier. ( _How does he know where it is?_ Annabeth wondered.)

The young man reached out until the air rippled around his hand. Somehow the barrier allowed the gathered demigods to understand his next words:

“Misaki,” he said. His voice rasped with an undercurrent of near-pleading. His gaze was fixed on burning hazel eyes. “Let me in.”

Yata glared for several more seconds before he huffed and crossed his arms. “Fine. I, Misaki Yata, son of Ares, allow the clear-Sighted mortal Saruhiko Fushimi to enter Camp Half-Blood.”

_Clear-Sighted?_ Annabeth reeled at the revelation. _That explains why he was able to see the barrier._

A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. The children of the gods reluctantly lowered their weapons as the barrier shimmered for an instant. 

Saruhiko Fushimi sauntered into Camp Half-Blood. Pausing just in front of the Vanguard of Ares, Saruhiko returned Yata’s glare. Then, between one breath and the next, the stranger’s hands darted out and he pulled Yata into a tight embrace.

Squawking, Yata tried to squirm away. The campers tensed. Saruhiko whispered something in Yata’s ear and buried his face in the shorter man’s chestnut hair.

The fight went out of Yata’s limbs. He relaxed into the hug, a tiny smile tugging on his lips. Aphrodite’s children cooed, and although the tips of Yata’s ears burned red, he did not let go of Saruhiko until the blue-haired young man grudgingly released him.

“Yata,” Chiron said. “Allow us to adjourn to the Big House. It seems you have a story to tell.”

Flustered, the Vanguard of Ares shrugged. As the group moved down the Hill into the Camp, the demigods couldn’t help but notice that for all Yata seemed to be hostile towards Saruhiko, the two never strayed more than an arms-length from the other’s side.

_Yata_ , the demigods wondered. _What in Hades have you been up to?_


	5. Farewell to the Vanguard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yata's two worlds finally collide!
> 
> TW for mentions of past self-harm, and violence.

Percy thought it might say something that the place the demigods unconsciously chose to have Yata tell his story was around the War Table. Although a crowd of demigods had trailed them to the Big House, only Chiron, the cabin leaders, Yata, and Yata’s . . . friend . . . remained.

Mr. D. lurked in the corner, trying to pretend he wasn’t interested in the proceedings. In a rare display of consideration (or perhaps as a reflexive need for a drink), Mr. D. had summoned Diet Cokes for everyone. For the first few minutes, everyone settled into their seats and grabbed a can. Then came the sound of hissing carbonation as everyone opened a can. And then there was silence.

**_< \--sayonara: first question-->_ **

Chiron cleared his throat. “Yata, would you care to introduce us to your friend?”

The Vanguard of Ares scowled. “For the last time, he’s not my—”

“Shut it, Misaki,” the stranger said. Percy jolted in surprise at hearing him speak English, before he remembered that passing through the barrier enabled him to temporarily speak one of the Camp’s official languages so they could all understand him. “Don’t play coy, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Hey,” Clarisse snapped. She curled a hand around her spear. “Don’t talk to my brother like that.”

The stranger’s eyes went wide in genuine surprise. “Your brother?” His surprise morphed into something bemused before glee won over. “Oi, Misaki, you didn’t tell me you had a sister.”

“You didn’t deserve to know,” Yata growled. A look of hurt darted across the stranger’s face, there and gone almost too fast for Percy to see. Yata was too busy scowling at the table to notice. After a moment of tense silence, Yata heaved a sigh and said, “Clarisse, meet Saruhiko Fushimi. Saru, meet Clarisse, my little sister.”

Fushimi’s expression went back to gleeful. “She might be your little sister, but she’s not exactly smaller than you, is she? It looks like even here, you’re the runt of the litter. How cute, Misaki.”

Stifled gasps echoed around the table. Percy was shocked at how bluntly this stranger had pointed out the Vanguard’s height. Percy had the same thoughts when he first met the Vanguard, but even he had enough tact not to comment on it to the Vanguard’s face.

To his surprise, Yata merely sneered at his . . . not-friend. “Shut up, Saru. Just ‘cause I’m shorter than you, it doesn’t mean I can’t wipe the floor with you.”

“Is that so?” Fushimi drawled. He leaned an elbow on the table, propping his chin on a closed fist. All his attention was on Yata, and Percy began to feel like he was witnessing something he shouldn’t, especially when Yata turned to face him head on. “Yeah. I kicked your ass just the other day, you damned monkey. Or did you forget?”

“I must have,” Fushimi said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Considering you went missing without a fucking word.”

The air turned distinctly frigid. The demigods shifted as Yata and Fushimi glared at each other.

“I left a note,” Yata said.

Fushimi barked a laugh. It sounded distinctly bitter. “Not with me, you didn’t. And that half-assed letter you left with the Reds doesn’t count.”

Yata glanced away. “I didn’t want to get you involved.”

“Why the hell not?” Fushimi snarled.

“It wasn’t your fight!” Yata shouted back. His face was reddening. And was it Percy’s imagination, or were crimson flames flickering around his fingertips?

“It was!” Fushimi’s voice burned with cold fury. He didn’t shout, but he might as well have. He and Yata were leaning forward so much they were practically breathing the same air. “What’s yours is _mine_ , you idiot. Especially if it’s something as important as this.”

“You don’t have a right to say that. Not after you—” Yata cut himself off. He looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

Fushimi laughed. He threw his head back and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes glinted. “You failed at that, Misaki. Your damned Clan’s been tearing apart the city trying to find you for the past two weeks. All of which could have been avoided if you had just _told me_ what was going on.”

Yata slammed his fist on the table. The Diet Coke cans rattled. “There was nothing you could have done, you damn monkey! You would have gotten hurt. And I . . . I couldn’t let that happen. Even though you’re an asshole.”

“Boys,” Chiron tried to interject.

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “That wasn’t your choice to make, Misaki.”

“Bullshit,” Misaki shot back. “Yes, it was!”

“Boys,” Chiron said again.

“You went to _war_ ,” Fushimi hissed. “You could have _died_. What do you think that would have done to your stupid Clan?” Unspoken, Percy thought he could hear the echo of _What do you think that would have done to me?_

There was a beat of silence before Yata said stiffly, “It was the West’s war. It didn’t have anything to do with the Slate. So, you and your damned Clan don’t have any jurisdiction over it. You can yell at me all you want, Saru. But I would do the same thing again.”

Fushimi sneered. “I know you would, idiot. You’re such a bleeding heart. It’s disgusting.”

Yata snorted, and Chiron took his chance to get a word in edgewise. “Yata. As briefly as possible, please tell us what’s going on. Is there someone you should contact? Your . . . Clan, perhaps?”

“Yeah,” Yata slouched a little in his chair. “Probably.”

“There’s a phone upstairs. You could—”

Yata shook his head. “That wouldn’t work. Where I live, you need special equipment to call anyone.”

One of the Stoll brothers raised his eyebrows. “Where do you live? Under a rock?”

Yata gave him a small smile. The tension in the room dissipated a little. “Nah. It’s just that where I live is under the protection of Iris.”

“Iris?” Annabeth raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Yata said. “Nothing goes in or out unless it’s an IM. And, well, no one there knows that I’m . . .” Yata trailed off, and the demigods winced in sympathy. They all knew what it was like to lie about your identity every day, even to people you loved.

“What about your watch?” Fushimi asked. His expression had smoothed out. If Percy hadn’t witnessed it himself mere minutes ago, he would never have believed that Fushimi was capable of anything besides apathy.

“It broke during the fighting,” Yata said. “And then I had to stay and make sure the Camp was going to be okay. I didn’t have a chance to get it fixed.”

Fushimi adjusted his glasses. “You wouldn’t have been able to fix it anyway. The technology in the West isn’t advanced enough.”

“Wait,” Percy said. “What?”

Fushimi ignored him. All his attention was on Yata. “Just how long were you planning to stay here?”

“Actually, you damn monkey, I was just leaving when _you_ showed up.”

“Hold on,” Annabeth turned to Fushimi. “Just how _did_ you get here? The Camp is supposed to be well-hidden. Even though you’re clear-Sighted, you shouldn’t have been able to find it.”

Fushimi glanced at her. “I didn’t.”

There was an expectant silence. Fushimi heaved a put-upon sigh and readjusted his glasses. “A couple of hours ago, the Red Clan came to SCEPTER 4 headquarters looking for help to locate this idiot.”

“Oi,” Yata started, but Annabeth cut him off. “Wait. What do you mean by that? You keep mentioning Clans. What are they? And what is SCEPTER 4?”

“I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Do you have a choice?” Annabeth asked sweetly. The demigods around the table took that as their cue to flash their Celestial bronze blades. The bronze couldn’t hurt mortals, but Fushimi didn’t know that. “I think you owe us an explanation.”

Despite being outnumbered more than ten to one, Fushimi looked ready to argue. Yata lifted a hand and waved them down. “It’s fine, Saru. Just tell them.”

“Fine,” Fushimi grumbled. “You owe me, though. The Captain is going to give me a lot of shit for this.”

Yata just grunted. Fushimi turned back to Annabeth. “Clans are groups of people who serve a King. There are seven Kings and seven Clans, although at the moment only four are active.”

“Wait,” Clarisse’s brow was furrowed in confusion. “Yata, you belong to a Clan?”

“Hell yeah,” Yata said. For the first time since Fushimi showed up, Percy saw some of Yata’s familiar boisterousness bubble to the surface. Yata yanked down the collar of his tank top to show the tattoo on his chest. “This means I’m part of HOMRA. The Red Clan. It’s the best Clan.”

“You mean the most reckless clan,” Fushimi sniped. He rubbed at his chest in the same place Yata had his tattoo. Annabeth narrowed her eyes but didn’t comment on it. Yata looked offended, but Fushimi continued before he could start another argument. “I belong to the Blue Clan, otherwise known as SCEPTER 4. We’re responsible for keeping the balance as well as keeping certain miscreants,” Fushimi flashed a look at Yata, “under control.”

“Which you suck at,” Yata said, “considering you’re the one who starts most of the fights in the first place.”

Fushimi smirked. “Only when you’re there, Misaki. You’re just so easy to bait.”

“Oi,” Yata frowned.

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Annabeth said. “How did you get here?”

“As I was saying,” Fushimi said, “a couple of hours ago, the Red Clan came looking for its wayward Vanguard. They said Yata had been missing for about two weeks. We tracked him to the airport and saw that he booked a flight to America.

“I always keep an eye on international news, and I remembered seeing headlines about a strange storm that had been making its way across the continental U.S. I pulled up some footage and put the pieces together when I saw a monster in the clouds being harassed by . . . gods, I assume.”

“Watch your tone, boy,” Mr. D. said. Fushimi looked supremely unconcerned when faced with a passive-aggressive threat from an immortal being. He waved a hand, “Anyway, then I tried to contact Yata to ask him what the hell he was thinking, going off to war without telling me, but the IM wouldn’t go through.”

“You tried to contact me?” Yata looked surprised.

Fushimi glanced at him, and then looked away. “It didn’t work.”

“Then what happened?” Annabeth prompted.

“Then,” Fushimi said, “there was a bright flash of light, and a woman appeared right in front of us.”

“Us?” Yata echoed.

“All of the Red Clan and all of SCEPTER 4.”

Yata went pale.

Annabeth’s brow furrowed. “Who was the woman?”

“The Captain called her Lady Aphrodite.”

Drew Tanaka gasped. “ _My_ _mom_ crashed your rescue party?”

“So, she was a goddess?” Fushimi mused. “Hm. Now I understand why my King didn’t outright slaughter her for daring to trespass on SCEPTER 4 property.”

Some demigods tensed at such a blatant threat, but Drew merely scoffed. “My mom would’ve kicked your King’s ass. Or slept with him. Or both. Probably both.”

“I’m not sure she was to my King’s taste,” Fushimi said with (did Percy’s ears deceive him?) a hint of wry humor. “But that’s beside the point. Long story short, Aphrodite said she knew where Misaki was, and she offered to take me to him. I said yes, and she dropped me outside your precious Camp.”

The demigods stared at him. Even Yata looked a little shell-shocked. Annabeth cleared her throat. “Let me get this straight. You willingly went with a stranger—in this case, a _goddess_ —whom you had no reason to trust?”

“Yes,” Fushimi said.

“Why?”

“She said she knew where Misaki was.”

“And just like that, you went with her?”

“Yes.”

“Saru?” Yata’s voice was the softest Percy had ever heard it. “You did that? For me?”

Fushimi turned to him, an unreadable look in his eyes. “For the last time: yes.”

Yata’s hazel eyes went wide. Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Don’t misunderstand, Misaki. I’m still pissed at you for vanishing without a word.”

A tiny smile quirked the Vanguard of Ares’ lips. “Bastard.”

“Well,” Chiron said into the stunned silence that enveloped the room. He had a satisfied smile on his face. “I must admit I had a few doubts, Saruhiko, but it appears you have the potential to be a hero after all. Yata, you’ve chosen well.”

Fushimi looked like he had swallowed a jar of lemons. Yata sputtered. “Chosen? Chiron, what in Hades are you—?”

“On that note,” Chiron clapped his hands cheerfully, “what do you say we adjourn for now? Yata, I’m sure Saruhiko is tired. Godly teleportation takes its toll on everyone, especially mortals. Why don’t you get him settled in? I’m sure Ares Cabin can take one more.”

“Uh,” Clarisse blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Yeah, I guess we can.”

Yata tried to protest, but Chiron had already trotted out of the room. Sharing bemused glances, the rest of the demigods had no choice but to follow. Yata groaned, and dragged Fushimi after him.

“Come on, Saru,” Yata sounded resigned. “Let’s go get lunch.”

“You do realize it’s dinnertime for me, right?”

“Shut up.”

**_< \--sayonara: second question-->_ **

After they left the Big House and were making their way to the Dining Pavilion, Percy cleared his throat. “So,” he said, “what are you going to do now?”

His words caused Yata to temporarily stop bickering with Fushimi and turn to him. “Now? Well, I guess I have to figure out how to pay for another plane ticket for this freeloader,” he jerked a thumb at Fushimi, “and then we’ll head back to Japan.”

“Freeloader?” Fushimi scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Yata appeared quite used to Fushimi’s snide comments, and merely raised his voice to speak over him, “Saru’s right about one thing, at least. The Red Clan doesn’t like having one of their own unaccounted for. It’ll be best if I get back as soon as possible, so they don’t destroy Shizume City.”

He said it so nonchalantly that the demigods paused, taken aback. Fushimi, however, didn’t miss a beat. “ _Tsk_. You hooligans have destroyed so much property in the past two weeks that the collateral damage bill is astronomical. How doesn’t your Clan go bankrupt?”

“That’s easy,” Yata said. “We all have jobs besides being in the Clan. Well, except Anna, of course. She’s just a kid.”

“Oh, really?” Fushimi rolled his eyes. “And what’s your job exactly?”

“Skateboard lessons,” Yata said. “I also work part-time stocking shelves at one of the corner stores.”

Fushimi stopped. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” Yata raised an eyebrow. “How do you think I afford my apartment?”

“I thought your King paid for everything. Mine does.”

Yata scoffed. “Not all of our Kings come from actual noble families. Some of us work to get where we are.”

Fushimi bristled. “Captain Munakata isn’t from a noble family, he’s just—”

“Wait,” Annabeth said. “Your Kings aren’t actually royalty? Then, how are they chosen?”

Fushimi turned to her. “Who are you again?”

The demigods snarled at his disrespectful tone. They only backed down when Yata immediately hit Fushimi so hard upside the head he grunted and turned to glare at the Vanguard of Ares, “What was that for, Misaki?”

“Show some respect,” Yata snapped back. “That’s one of the heroes of Olympus. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for her.”

That seemed to sober Fushimi. He _tsked_ and turned back to Annabeth. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Annabeth arched an eyebrow at him, “Apology accepted. My name is Annabeth, daughter of Athena.”

“Goddess of wisdom and battle?” Fushimi asked, a hint of interest in his voice.

“The very same,” Annabeth smirked. “This is Percy, son of Poseidon. That’s Chris, son of Hermes, and you already know Clarisse, daughter of Ares.”

Fushimi grunted in acknowledgement. Yata looked exasperated, but the demigods knew enough about Fushimi’s prickly personality at this point not to take offense.

“Anyway,” Annabeth said. “My question stands. How are your Kings chosen, if not by birth? Everything we are is determined by who our godly parent is, so the idea of inheriting power without sharing blood is unfamiliar to us.”

“I see,” Fushimi said. “Our Kings are chosen by the Dresden Slate, which is a stone created by two of the first Kings. The Slate grants its chosen special powers which are represented by a Sword of Damocles that appears over their heads, and these Kings can then share their powers with the members of their Clans.

“No one knows why the Slate chooses who it does,” Fushimi continued. A shadow passed over his expression. “Sometimes its choices can have disastrous consequences.”

“Consequences?” Chris echoed. “Like what?”

Fushimi looked grim. “Like releasing enough energy to replicate a nuclear bomb.”

Annabeth gasped. “Is that what happened in Shizume City a while ago?”

“Yes,” Fushimi’s hand tightened on his sword. “The previous Red King lost control of his powers. His Sword of Damocles fell, killing him and seven hundred thousand civilians within a certain radius. All that was left was a giant crater. The Kagutsu Crater.”

“I thought that was caused by a nuclear power plant,” Annabeth murmured.

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t something as simple as that,” Fushimi said. “And that wasn’t even the worst part.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Kagustu Crater incident didn’t just kill the King that caused it. It also led to the death of the previous Blue King. He was in charge of SCEPTER 4 and was therefore responsible for keeping the Kings in check. He tried to help his fellow King before his Sword fell, but he was too late.

“The incident caused his own powers to go out of control. To stop his own Sword from falling and causing a second crater, he asked his lieutenant to kill him.”

“What?” the demigods chorused in shock. They glanced at Yata, but the Vanguard of Ares looked just as serious as Fushimi.

“It’s true,” Yata said. “The old Blue King died on his subordinate’s sword. His sacrifice saved a lot of lives. The current Blue King has the same kind of spirit, and that’s one reason why I don’t hate the Blues as much as I could.”

“Is that the only reason?” Fushimi asked silkily.

Yata’s face flushed and he shoved him. “Shut up, Saru.”

The moment of levity was enough to help break the serious atmosphere. The demigods relaxed, and as the group continued to the Dining Pavilion, Clarisse asked a question. “You said the Slate gives the Kings and their Clans powers. What kind of powers are you talking about?”

“Usually it’s Flames,” Yata replied. “That’s the most common, at least.”

“Is that what you have?” Annabeth asked. “It looks like Ares’ blessing of war, but he doesn’t grant his children the gift of fire.”

“Nah,” Yata said. Crimson flames bloomed across his hand and he raised his fist proudly. “This is a gift from my King.”

“What about you?” Annabeth asked Fushimi. He grunted, and blue flames jumped between his fingers before he flicked his wrist and snuffed them out.

“Cool,” Clarisse said. She rolled her shoulders and gave Fushimi a bloodthirsty smirk. “I wouldn’t mind seeing those Flames in action. Wanna fight?”

“Oh?” Fushimi asked, a glint in his eyes. “I suppose I could oblige, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be that much of a fight.”

Clarisse glared at him, but Yata got in his face before she could. “Bold words, Saru. We’ll wipe the floor with you.”

“I’d like to see you try, Misaki,” Fushimi purred.

“Um,” Percy interjected. “I love a fight as much as the next guy, but can it please wait until after lunch? I’m starving.”

“I suppose,” Fushimi said. “I haven’t eaten since this morning, anyway.”

“Are you not eating enough again?” Yata scolded.

“I eat plenty!” Fushimi snapped. “I just had to work overtime again, cleaning up your Clan’s mess, so I forgot.”

“That’s no excuse!” Yata insisted.

The demigods watched with quiet amusement as the two of them bickered their way through the food line. They only paused when they got to the fire. Fushimi watched in bemusement as Yata sacrificed some of his food to the flames.

“Why are you lecturing me about eating enough and then turning around and wasting perfectly good food by throwing it in the fire?” Fushimi asked snidely.

“Shut up, Saru,” Yata huffed. “It’s tradition. We give some food to the fire to honor our godly parent.”

“I don’t have a godly parent,” Fushimi smirked. “Guess that means I get to keep my food.”

“Not so fast,” Annabeth said. “You should probably sacrifice some food to Aphrodite. She’s the one who brought you here, after all.”

“No!” Yata snapped, his cheeks turning red. “There is no way I’m letting Saru thank her for something I didn’t even ask for!”

For once, Fushimi looked truly bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“Oh,” Clarisse snickered. “The other night, Aphrodite told Yata she’d bring him a gift. I guess you were it.”

“Clarisse!” Yata looked betrayed.

To the demigods’ shock, Fushimi actually blushed a little and refused to meet anyone’s gaze. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “I agree with Misaki.”

“You guys,” Annabeth chided, “it’s not a good idea to disrespect her.”

“Even if she does meddle,” Percy muttered, then winced when Annabeth elbowed him.

“Just do it,” she urged. “You really don’t want the goddess of love to be mad at you.”

Yata and Fushimi shared an uncomfortable glance before Fushimi sighed and pushed a tiny portion of food into the flames. “Fine. Is that enough?”

“Yes.” Yata dragged him over to the Ares table. No one else was in the Pavilion, so the rest of the demigods joined them.

“So, after lunch, we’re gonna fight, right?” Clarisse asked.

“Hell yeah,” Yata grinned. “You and me against him. Whoever loses pays for both of our tickets home.”

“You think my SCEPTER 4 salary can afford that?” Fushimi grumbled, then sighed. “Fine, you’re on.”

The children of Ares shared a conspiratorial glance, and the rest of the demigods prepared for an entertaining post-lunch show.

**_< \--sayonara: third question-->_ **

Word somehow spread of the impending spar, and by the time they made it to the Arena, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Fushimi glanced at the audience and _tsked_ in annoyance. He turned his back on them and shed his coat, folding it neatly and setting it aside.

Percy watched him with curiosity. _He might act really disdainful_ , Percy thought, _but it looks like he really cares about his Clan, at least. Well_ , Percy corrected himself with a hint of amusement, _his Clan and Yata, that is._ Despite what anyone said about his observation skills, Percy wasn’t blind to the way Fushimi always made sure to keep Yata in his line of sight and constantly watched his back. The dynamic reminded Percy of the way he and Annabeth always looked out for each other. Not that Percy wanted to tell Fushimi that. He had the feeling that if he did, he’d end up skewered by Fushimi’s intricately-carved sword.

_They’re almost as bad as Katie and Travis_ , Percy mused. _Always fighting, but always willing to drop everything to help if the other asked._

Percy frowned as a thought occurred to him. _I wonder why they haven’t admitted how they feel. I get that they’re from different Clans, but surely that wouldn’t be enough to keep them from dating?_

Then Fushimi turned around, and Percy unwittingly got the answer to his question. Fushimi’s starched v-neck shirt was cut just low enough to reveal a horrific mass of scars that stood out stark against his skin, directly over his heart.

“What in Hades’ name is that?” Drew shrieked. Everyone turned to look, and Fushimi went perfectly still. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy saw Yata stiffen.

“It’s nothing,” Fushimi said, his voice frigid with warning.

Drew being Drew, she cheerfully ignored his tone and flounced closer, peering at the scars with avid curiosity, “Oh my gods!” she exclaimed. “That looks just like the tattoo Yata has. You guys have the same tattoo? That is _so_ romantic.”

Fushimi looked ready to stab her, but Drew continued, “Oh my gods, matching tattoos are a _huge_ commitment. You guys must _really_ love each other. But why is yours so messed up? Did you get burned or something?”

“Wait,” Annabeth murmured. “I thought that tattoo meant a person belongs to the Red Clan. But Fushimi is part of the Blue Clan, right? So why does he have that tattoo?”

Percy didn’t know the answer, and judging by the thunderous expression on Yata’s face, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Unfortunately, Drew saw Yata’s anger as well and jumped to conclusions, “Oh my gods, did you cheat on Yata? Is that why your tattoo is messed up? Did you two fight, and he burned you as punishment? That is so dark but so, so hot.”

“Don’t be gross, Drew,” Yata snapped, his expression bitter. “He did that to himself.”

“He did?” Drew looked gleeful. “I see why Mom is so interested in you two. She loves a martyr who sacrifices himself on the altar of love.”

“He’s not a martyr,” Yata snarled. “He’s a traitor.”

“I did what I had to do, Misaki,” Fushimi retorted. A blue aura began to singe the air around him, the scent of ozone thick in the Arena.

“You didn’t have to go that far!” Yata shouted. “You didn’t have to burn yourself! You didn’t have to leave! If you had just talked to me—”

Fushimi laughed, the noise cold and grating. Percy watched in alarm as any hint of friendliness melted out of the blue-haired young man, leaving behind the old apathy and cold fury Percy had learned to be wary of. “That’s rich,” Fushimi hissed. “Like you would have listened to a word against your precious King—”

“Leave him out of this!” Yata shouted. 

“Why should I?” Fushimi sneered. “He’s always been such a large part of the problem.”

Yata yelled and lunged for him, flames flaring to life around him. Glowing knives appeared in Fushimi’s hands as he moved to attack—

“Stop it!” Clarisse shouted. She stepped between them and shoved Yata off balance. His flames singed her hands and she winced before forcing a stern expression on her face, “That’s enough. You two need to cool off.”

“Clarisse,” Yata looked like he’d been snapped out of a trance. All his attention went to her hands. He looked horrified. “Did I burn you? I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine,” Clarisse said. “But you two need to stop now before someone really gets hurt.”

Percy had never seen such a look of guilt on the Vanguard of Ares’ face. He backed up a few steps and glanced around with a lost expression. Everyone held their breath as he bowed his head and made his way through the crowd.

Clarisse turned to Fushimi, who still looked murderous. She stared him down until he huffed. The knives disappeared, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. He slunk off to the shadows and slouched against the wall.

Finally, Clarisse crossed her arms and turned to the crowd. “The fight’s been postponed. Scram.”

The demigods dispersed, muttering amongst themselves. They cast worried glances after Yata and wary ones at Fushimi. Clarisse waited until they were gone before turning to Annabeth and Percy. “Can you keep an eye on him? I need to go find Yata.”

Percy wasn’t looking forward to facing Fushimi’s withering glare, but Annabeth nodded to Clarisse, so he didn’t have much of a choice. Clarisse walked off, and Annabeth sighed.

“Come on.” She grabbed Percy’s hand and tugged him forward. “Let’s go talk to him.”

Percy allowed her to drag him over to Fushimi, who watched their approach with an apathetic look. “What do you want?”

“We just want to talk,” Annabeth said soothingly. “What was that all about?”

“It’s none of your business,” Fushimi crossed his arms and looked away.

Annabeth was not deterred. “Yata called you a traitor because you used to be part of the Red Clan, right?”

Fushimi glared at her, but Annabeth merely raised an eyebrow. “Well? Why did you leave the Red Clan?”

For a moment, Percy was certain Fushimi wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed, and Percy caught a glimpse of such deep exhaustion he felt it in his own bones. “I left because I didn’t belong. But Misaki will never understand that, or admit I’m right.”

“What do you mean?”

Fushimi tipped his head back against the wall of the Arena, his blue eyes distant. “The Red Clan is full of hotheads. As a whole, they’re reckless and impulsive and needlessly violent. I don’t mind the violence, but the rest of it grated on me. It got to the point where I hated every minute of being there, so I burned the Red King’s mark from my skin and left to join the Blue Clan. The Blue Clan is much more . . . analytical . . . than the Red Clan. It suits me.”

Fushimi turned to look at them, his gaze fierce. “Misaki can call me a traitor all he wants, but I don’t regret what I did.”

Percy cleared his throat. “Look, we’ve dealt with a lot of traitors thanks to the Second Titan War, and it sounds like you did betray the Red Clan by joining another, but, um, at least you didn’t do it out of malice.”

“There was some malice,” Fushimi smiled without mirth. “I resented how much attention Misaki paid to the Red Clan. Before we met the Red King, it was just the two of us. I miss that.” The last sentence was spoken so softly the demigods barely heard it.

Percy and Annabeth exchanged a glance. Carefully, Percy reached out and dared to rest a hand on Fushimi’s shoulder. Fushimi glanced up sharply, but Percy didn’t flinch. “Look, I won’t pretend I understand everything that’s happened between you and Yata, but I can tell you both care about each other. Even if you’re too stubborn to admit it, you guys are close. Take it from me, that’s not something you want to ignore for too long.”

“At the risk of sounding cliché,” Annabeth said, “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Ask yourself this: Would you rather fight about this with Yata forever, or would you rather try to move past it?”

“It’s not that easy,” Fushimi gritted out.

“I know,” Annabeth said. “But the life of a demigod is usually short, Fushimi. The Fates aren’t often kind to us.”

Fushimi stiffened. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying chances are that Yata won’t live forever,” Annabeth said bluntly. “And neither will you. I don’t know everything about your life in Shizume City, but it sounds like it has its own dangers. And you guys would be stronger together, even if it’s a different kind of together than you had in the past.”

“Think about it,” Percy said.

A shadow fell over the trio. They looked up to find Yata and Clarisse standing before them. The Vanguard of Ares looked more subdued than Percy had ever seen him, but he still met Fushimi’s gaze determinedly.

“Sorry,” Yata said gruffly. “I lost my temper. I forgot to honor our truce.”

For a long moment, Fushimi didn’t respond. Percy watched with concern as Yata grew visibly tenser. Then Fushimi sighed. “It’s fine, Misaki. I admit I wasn’t behaving as well as I could have been either.”

“That’s because you have a shitty personality,” Yata murmured. It was a weak attempt at humor, but Fushimi snorted. “Whatever.”

A companionable silence fell between them. The demigods breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Clarisse cleared her throat. “So, are you still good to fight?”

Fushimi smirked. “Ready when you are.”

Yata grinned. “Bring it on.”

**_< \--sayonara: final question-->_ **

Later that night, after the fight ended with the children of Ares’ hard-won victory over Fushimi, Clarisse found her brother once again on the beach with his eyes fixed on the horizon. She watched him for a long moment, before getting close enough that he heard her approach and turned to look at her.

Clarisse waited until she was even with him before she spoke. “Will you ever come back?”

“Yes,” Yata said softly. “If you ever need me, I’ll come back.”

“Good,” Clarisse said. She smiled at him and ignored the burn of tears in her eyes. “Ares needs his Vanguard, and so do we.”

“They’ve got you, Drakonslayer,” Yata wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I know,” Clarisse sniffed. She turned to face him. “And I also know your Clan needs its Vanguard, too. I don’t want to keep you from them. I’m glad you found a place to belong out there. But I worry about you, Yata. From what Fushimi has said, it sounds like the life you’ve built isn’t exactly peaceful.”

“No,” Yata glanced down at the dark sand. “It’s not always peaceful.”

“After this stupid War,” Clarisse whispered, “I just want the people I love to be safe and happy. I don’t want anyone else to end up like Silena.”

“I know, _imouto_ ,” Yata stretched up to press a kiss to her forehead. “I know. But while I’m not always safe in Shizume City, I _am_ happy. I love my Clan, and I love being their Vanguard, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

“I know,” Clarisse said. “You’re stubborn like that.”

“Hey,” Yata pretended to be offended. “So are you. We come by it honestly.”

“We do,” Clarisse agreed. “Dad’s genes are pretty strong when it comes to that.”

The two _ichor_ -siblings fell silent. They listened to the soft sounds of the waves and watched the horizon together. They didn’t move until the shrieks of the cleaning harpies started getting a little too close for comfort.

“We should probably head back to the Cabin,” Clarisse said. “You need to sleep before you and Fushimi fly back tomorrow. Hopefully you won’t kill each other on the plane.”

“Hey!” Yata squawked. “We’re not that bad.”

“You definitely are.” Clarisse gave him a playful shove that sent Yata staggering. They play-wrestled all the way back to Camp.

Once they were within sight of the Cabin, Clarisse stopped. Yata stopped as well, and raised his eyebrows.

“Do you trust him?”

“Who?” Yata’s brow furrowed.

“Fushimi.”

It took Yata a moment to answer, but when he did, she could see the sincerity in his eyes. “Yes.”

Clarisse relaxed. Then she smirked. “Do you like him?”

“What?” Yata flailed around, his face flushing bright red. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just curious,” Clarisse grinned. “Silena used to say her mom was never wrong about these things, and she did bring him halfway across the world for you as some sort of war prize.”

“Ugh, don’t say it like that,” Yata groaned.

Clarisse raised an eyebrow. “I’m serious, Yata.”

“Well,” Yata coughed. He opened his mouth to answer, but the door to Ares Cabin swung open, and Fushimi stuck his head out. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he squinted at them. “Can you keep it down? Some of us have been awake for more than a day.”

Yata looked terrified. “Saru! Um, how much of that did you hear?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Fushimi said. Curiosity flickered in his eyes before his lips twisted in a mischievous smirk. “Why? Were you talking about me, Misaki?”

“No!” Yata insisted. “No way. We were just talking about battle tactics, right, Clarisse?”

Both Clarisse and Fushimi gave him unimpressed looks. “Battle tactics,” Clarisse said. “Really?”

Yata threw his hands in the air and blustered his way past Fushimi into Ares Cabin. Fushimi stared after him for a second, before turning back to Clarisse.

The two eyed each other warily, before Clarisse broke the silence. “You better look after him.”

Fushimi watched her for a long moment, his dark blue eyes somber. Then he raised his chin and said, “I will.”

“Good.” Clarisse clapped him on the shoulder, just hard enough to make him stumble. She smirked at his irritated look, and went into the Cabin.

“Demigods,” Fushimi muttered. He closed the door and returned to bed. He kept his gaze on Yata, who lay in the bed next to him, until he drifted to sleep.

**V . O . A .**

The next morning after breakfast, Yata made his way to Thalia’s Hill once more, Fushimi at his side and the Camp trailing after them.

Hephaestus’ Cabin had loaned Fushimi a case for his sword so he could take it on the plane. He had it slung over his shoulder, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he waited for Yata to say his goodbyes.

Percy drifted over to him as Yata was surrounded by his _ichor_ -cousins. “So, you guys all set?”

Fushimi glanced at him. “Yes. Apparently, Angus is giving us a ride to the airport.”

“Nice,” Percy said.

Silence fell between them. Fushimi let it continue for a while before he turned to face Percy. “What do you want?”

“Nothing!” Percy held up his hands. Fushimi gave him a narrow look, and Percy shrugged. “Well, I just wanted to say I hope you guys have a good trip home. And that you’re welcome here any time. We don’t often let mortals into Camp, but we’ll make an exception for you.”

“For me?” Fushimi raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well,” Percy cleared his throat. “You and Yata are—”

“We’re what?” Fushimi asked, sweet as honeyed poison.

“Friends?” Percy said cautiously. Fushimi didn’t immediately try to attack him, so he dared to say, “Well, you’re more than friends, obviously, but that’s not my business, and anyway it doesn’t matter—”

“Get to the point,” Fushimi snapped.

“Right.” Percy sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re important to Yata, and that’s what matters to us. He’s a demigod all alone out there, and it makes us all feel better to know you’re there to watch his back.”

“You do realize we belong to rival Clans,” Fushimi said.

Percy couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Right. Like that actually matters when it comes down to it. Are you really saying you wouldn’t take a sword for him?”

Fushimi looked stricken. “Yata took a bullet for me.”

“He did?” Percy’s eyes widened. “Now it makes sense. I wondered where that bullet wound was from.”

Fushimi glared at the ground. “He wouldn’t have gotten hurt if he had just stayed out of the way. I would have been fine.”

“You know that’s not how Yata is,” Percy said softly. “He’s the Vanguard. It’s his job to lead the charge, to protect everyone he can. Including you. Probably especially you.”

“I wish he wasn’t such a bleeding heart,” Fushimi muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Percy said. “He wouldn’t be Yata if he didn’t care so much about others.”

“I know,” Fushimi gritted his teeth. “But he’s always throwing himself into things he shouldn’t.”

“But you’re always there to back him up, aren’t you?” Percy asked. “Even if you belong to different Clans now, you’re still important to each other. You still protect each other, and that’s what matters.”

Percy cleared his throat, “I don’t know if you realize this, Fushimi, but being a demigod is lonely. We can’t usually trust our mortal friends and family with the truth of what we are. But Yata trusts you. And we trust him. So, we’re willing to let you keep the secret of our Camp, because we know we can trust you.”

“Not many people trust me. I’m a traitor, after all,” Fushimi said, his mouth twisting into a cruel smirk. But his eyes were dull, the look of a man resigned.

“I’ve known a lot of traitors,” Percy said, the memory of Luke’s hand wrapped around that hallowed Celestial bronze blade flashing through his mind’s eye. “The War forced a lot of demigods to make hard choices. Some of them came back to us, and some of them didn’t.”

“Are you saying I should go back to the Red Clan?” Fushimi gave him a withering look.

“No,” Percy shook his head. “It sounds like you’re much better off in the Blue Clan. What I’m saying is, being a traitor isn’t all you are. I’ve only known you for a day, but I can already tell that you’re smart, and loyal to those you care about. And that’s good enough for me.”

Percy clapped a hand on Fushimi’s shoulder. When Fushimi met his gaze, Percy smiled. “I know you made hard choices, Fushimi. It’s true that you betrayed Yata’s trust once, but it’s also true that you would never really hurt him. I know it, and you know it, and he knows it. And that’s why I trust you to keep our secret. You’ve earned it.”

Fushimi stared at him, eyes wide. Then, slowly, the harsh lines in his face softened. “You could still be making a mistake,” he said, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I could turn around and stab you in the back.”

“You could try,” Percy laughed. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I took a dip in the River Styx. I’m basically invulnerable.”

“Right,” Fushimi scoffed. Percy just continued to grin at him, and Fushimi’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, you’re telling the truth?”

“Telling the truth about what?” Yata piped up. He’d broken away from the crowd of well-wishing demigods and come to stand at Fushimi’s side. His stance was loose, a small smile on his face. It was the most content Percy had ever seen the Vanguard of Ares, and the sight made him smile.

“I was just telling Fushimi about my dip in the Styx. Just giving him a head’s up, you know, if he ever tries to fight me.”

“Eh, you’re not that tough,” Yata nudged Fushimi. “Saru and I could take you.”

His words settled something in Fushimi, and his stance loosened as well. A small smirk stretched across his face. They leaned into each other subconsciously, and they remained that way even when Clarisse appeared, dragging Chris and Annabeth behind her.

“There you are,” Clarisse said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Yata said. He shook hands with Percy, Annabeth, and Chris, until only Clarisse remained.

Yata dropped his bag and stepped forward to give his _ichor_ -sister a hug. They clung together for a long moment. Yata murmured something that made Clarisse laugh, and when they pulled away, their eyes were wet. Percy half-expected Fushimi to tease Yata for it, but he merely stepped up to stand at his side: a quiet, supportive presence. Yata glanced back at him and smiled.

And then Angus arrived at the bottom of the hill and honked the horn.

“Guess that’s our cue,” Yata said. He shouldered his bag and turned to face them one last time. “Thanks for everything.”

“No,” Annabeth said. “Thank _you_. We wouldn’t have won the Second Titan War without your assistance. We owe you our lives, Vanguard of Ares.”

She bowed her head, and the other demigods did the same. A respectful silence fell, and Yata turned bright red. “Um,” he said. “It was really nothing.”

Clarisse snorted and shoved him. Yata squawked, but stopped when Clarisse met his gaze, her eyes serious. “It really wasn’t. We needed a vanguard, and you answered our call.”

“I’d do it again,” Yata said. “If you ever need me, Clarisse, just ask.”

“Same to you, Yata,” Clarisse said. “You’re our Vanguard of Ares, and if you ever need us, we’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Yata said softly.

Angus honked the horn again. Yata took a deep breath, and turned to face Chiron.

“You’ve done well, Yata,” Chiron said. “You’ve proved us all wrong. You’re a true hero, and I am honored to know you.”

Chiron bowed, and Yata bowed back. Then he raised his chin and stepped over the Camp boundary. He made his way down the hill, his head held high. Fushimi followed a step behind him.

The demigods rushed forward and shouted goodbye, waving and cheering. Yata turned around and waved back. Even Fushimi took a moment to give them a two-fingered salute. Then they climbed into the van, and headed down the road.

Clarisse stared after them as the other demigods dispersed. She didn’t move until Percy spoke. “Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”

“Of course we will,” Clarisse said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. The van disappeared from sight, and she turned back to Camp, a small smile on her face. “He’s the Vanguard of Ares. He’ll come if we call.”

She headed toward the Arena, and Percy bid a silent final farewell to the Vanguard of Ares. Then Annabeth slipped her hand into his, and led him back to Camp.

**_< \--sayonara: vanguard of ares-->_ **

They say the third time is the charm. The third time Yata tried to leave Camp, it was with the blessing of the gods and Saruhiko Fushimi at his side.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end. I hope you enjoy!

Their journey back to Japan was uneventful. They made it on the plane with time to spare, and spent the fourteen-hour flight bickering. Fushimi muttered about all the paperwork he had fallen behind on to chase after Yata. Yata shoved him and shut him up by convincing him to watch all six of the Mega Robot Warfare movies while sharing a headset. Fushimi grudgingly agreed.

Yata fell asleep sometime during the fourth movie, his head on Fushimi’s shoulder. Fushimi let him sleep, content that Yata was warm and safe and alive. Not that he would ever admit that out loud.

The Vanguard of Ares woke up just as the plane began its descent into Tokyo. Fushimi expected him to jerk away when he noticed their compromising position. He braced himself for it, and for the disappointment he would feel when Yata would inevitably flush and bluster his way into pretending it never happened.

To his surprise, Yata merely yawned and kept his head on Fushimi’s shoulder.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” Yata murmured.

“Thanked me for what?” Fushimi asked, just as soft. He didn’t dare look down, desperate to preserve this strange peace between them.

“For coming to find me,” Yata said. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did,” Fushimi scoffed. “You went off to war without telling me. I had to find you and knock some sense into you.”

“Sorry,” Yata said softly. He started to lift his head, but Fushimi reached up and laced his fingers in his hair, silently asking him to stay. Slowly, Yata relaxed.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Fushimi said. “Just don’t do it again, Misaki.”

“Alright,” Yata laughed. “I’ll take you with me next time.”

“You’d better,” Fushimi released his hair and entwined their fingers. If he squeezed a little too tightly, Yata didn’t seem to mind. He merely sighed and settled in to watch the rest of the sixth movie for the remainder of the flight.

**V . O . A .**

Fushimi would never admit it, but he was a little worried both of their entire Clans would be waiting on the other side of the Arrivals door. He wasn’t quite ready to face that level of chaos yet, so Fushimi reached out and dragged Yata into an alcove before they could walk through the door.

“What is it, Saru?” Yata glanced around, scanning for danger. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Fushimi grumbled. “Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t want to go out there yet.”

Yata raised his eyebrows. “We have to go out there. Our Clans are waiting.”

“I know,” Fushimi muttered. “That’s the problem.”

“Saru,” Yata said. “We have responsibilities.”

“I know. I wish we didn’t.” Fushimi pressed his forehead to Yata’s shoulder. He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but he couldn’t help it. When they walked through that door, the tenderness they shared now would disappear, fading into their tentative truce.

“Saru.” The quiet command in Yata’s voice made Fushimi drag his eyes up from where their hands were intertwined to meet his gaze. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Fushimi laughed bitterly, “That’s easy for you to say, Misaki.”

“Come on, Saru,” Yata frowned. “Don’t do this.”

“I have to,” Fushimi snapped. “If I don’t, you’ll leave again.”

“I’m not going to leave,” Yata insisted, squeezing his hand. “We’re back home now. We’re not in the middle of a war. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re going back to them.”

“Of course I am,” Yata said. “They’re my Clan. And I’m their Vanguard. That’s how it’s always gonna be, Saru. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Fushimi muttered. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Hey,” Yata forced Fushimi to look him in the eye. “This is who I am, Saru. The gods themselves couldn’t change that, and neither will you.”

“I know,” Fushimi whispered. “I don’t want you to change, Misaki. It’s just hard to let you go.”

“Stupid Saru,” Yata laughed softly. “You don’t have to let me go. We live in the same city, for Hades’ sake. We run into each other all the time.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know,” Yata fell quiet for a moment. Then, he said, “Hey, why don’t you come to my apartment for dinner tonight? I still can’t cook anything besides ramen. But we could hang out, play some video games. If you want to, that is.”

“Misaki,” Fushimi stared at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Um,” Yata glanced away, his face red. “Maybe. So what if I am?”

“How very bold of you,” Fushimi purred. “Leading the charge. Maybe you are a vanguard, after all.”

“Oi,” Yata glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Fushimi lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to the tender skin of Yata’s inner wrist, delighting in the way a blush spread across his skin. “I’m just impressed.”

“You’re impossible,” Yata grumbled. “What’s your answer, then?”

“I accept, of course,” Fushimi simpered. “I could never deny my sweet Misaki anything.”

“You’re the worst,” Yata muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Mm,” Fushimi said. “You love it.”

Yata snorted. “Maybe I do.”

“What was that?” Fushimi asked gleefully.

“Nothing.” Yata dragged them out of the alcove. He gave Fushimi’s hand one last squeeze. Fushimi squeezed back. They released each other just as the doors swung open.

To Fushimi’s simultaneous relief and consternation, only a few members of their respective Clans were present. The Red and Blue Kings stood side by side, waiting for them to approach.

The sight of Suoh Mikoto always made Fushimi tense, but he forced his face to remain placid as Yata left his side and stood before his King.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” Yata said. He bowed deeply. The Red King watched him for a moment before he grunted. “It’s fine. We’re glad to have our Vanguard back where he belongs.”

Yata looked ecstatic at those words. Fushimi tamped down on the sour feeling in his stomach and turned to face his own King. Munakata Reisi watched him with too-discerning eyes. Fushimi resisted the urge to squirm as the silence dragged on for several seconds. Finally, the Blue King nodded, “Well done, Fushimi. Welcome back.”

Those words loosened something in his chest, and Fushimi relaxed enough to smirk. “It was no trouble. Wrangling troublesome Reds is what we do.”

“Indeed.” For a moment, the Blue King glanced at the Red King. Then he looked away, and turned back to Fushimi. “Shall we head back?”

Fushimi nodded. He let the Kings move ahead, and dropped back to walk with Yata. After a moment, Yata cleared his throat. “See you later tonight?”

“Yeah,” Fushimi said. “See you. Don’t get involved in any more wars. Not without me.”

Yata snorted. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good,” Fushimi said.

They walked out of the airport side by side, leaving the world of monsters behind and returning to the world of Kings and Clans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it!
> 
> Let me know if you'd like to see a oneshot about how these two worlds would interact during the K anime. 
> 
> Everyone stay safe and healthy!


End file.
